


The Greatest Legacy

by Buckeye01



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Danger, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-28 07:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5083510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckeye01/pseuds/Buckeye01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Athos and his company of 30 men are trapped under a stone bridge where it becomes a literal fight for survival. Desperate circumstances call for desperate measure, testing the mettle of the captain. The weight of command is heavy, but it grows heavier still as his company is whittled down, man by man.<br/>"Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Le Pont Vieux

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place sometime during or after season 3, as Athos is Captain of the Musketeers and Tréville is Minister of War.

GREATEST LEGACY

CHAPTER ONE: PONT VIEUX

*****

**Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones. A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories they share about you.  
Shannon L. Alder, Author**

**The greatest legacy one can pass on to one’s children and grandchildren is not money or material things accumulated in life, but rather a legacy of character.  
Billy Graham**

*****

The ground shook violently beneath the Musketeer's feet as the air above them filled with deadly projectiles of stone and iron; screams echoed under the stone bridge where the men took refuge from the deadly barrage. The same stone piers the men sought protection behind became an object of destruction as pieces of stone broken by the iron balls tore into the flesh of the Musketeers.

Hellfire from a multitude of cannon rained down on the company of men, bringing terror from the skies as the grapeshot hit the ground then exploded into daggers of stone and metal stabbing into nearby trees and flesh of men alike, while the solid balls barreled through everything in their path. 

“Spread out!” Captain Athos yelled to his company. “I want you men to take cover evenly behind the piers with five or six men on each side—don’t bunch up.”

“You heard the captain,” Porthos yelled out, his voice echoing through the archway. “Spread out,” he waved his arms toward the end of the bridge.

Athos ducked low as another canister exploded, sending metal shards flying through the air, embedding shards deep into the walls.

“Keep low to the ground; don’t give them an easy target!” Athos had to yell over the cacophony of noise echoing under the bridge. The roar of combat was deafening in open fields, but under the bridge the sounds were intensified as the echoes bounced between the walls of stone.

The men began to thin out, low-crawling through the dirt and grass to new positions inside the three archways stretched out over a tiny slice of land between the river and the canal. Athos looked at his three friends and, though he wanted his brothers near him, he ordered them away.

“You three need to spread out,” he motioned to the archways ahead. “I don’t want us all bunched up together. If something should happen, I don’t want all of us. . .” the captain couldn’t finish.

“Captain, someone should stay close by you. . .” d’Artagnan began but was cut off.

“No, spread out,” the captain ordered the three men. “Aramis, look after the wounded, carefully, and don’t get yourself hit. . . or we’re all in trouble,” Athos muttered under his breath.

Aramis observed his captain and shook his head. He knew his friend well enough to notice the worry from their dire situation deeply etched into his handsome features and he couldn’t hold back the sigh. 

_How do we always end up in situations like this? Go to Castelnaudary and find out what is going on with Minister Tréville and General de Turenne in Carcassonne. It couldn’t be something as simple as the messenger got busy and hasn’t returned the message yet? No, nothing ever is so simple with us._ Aramis thought angrily to himself. 

A new barrage of cannon and gunfire erupted, pulling Aramis from his angry thoughts to awaken him again in the hell he was trapped in. “Captain, I have no medical supplies with me,” Aramis reported grimly. “I had to bail from the horse in such a hurry; I didn’t have time to grab my satchel—Dammit!”

Athos nodded, but said nothing. No words were needed as he closed his eyes and shook his head at the news. “Do what you can with whatever means you find available,” Athos ordered quietly in the lull of noise. 

The lull didn’t last long. Pieces of shrapnel from the exploding canisters mixed with a rain of Spanish arquebus and musket balls, all zeroed in on movement under the bridge. “If it keeps up like this, treating the wounded won’t make a damn bit of difference—we’re all going to be dead,” the medic grumbled defiantly.

“Just go help the wounded,” Athos ordered tiredly. “Stay low, we can’t afford to lose you.”

“Right,” Aramis muttered as he low-crawled away to a man moaning in pain, two arches beyond.

A shower of lead and iron suddenly kicked up spouts of water, splashing over the men on the outside archway near the canal. The small island the Musketeers had clambered to for safety sat between the Aude River and its oxbow canal, surrounding the men with water on three sides. 

The storm of metal landing in the water gave the appearance of raindrops. The swirling and splashing of the water reminded d’Artagnan of a school of fish in a feeding frenzy.

The young Musketeer stared at the water in amazement as his mind wandered back to when he was a boy growing up on his family farm in Lupiac of Gascony. 

_“Are you sure you’re ready to stay on the river so long, son?” Alexandre d’Artagnan asked his young son, Charles. “We’re going to be out there for hours; it is why we’re bringing our lunch today.”_

_“Oui, Père, I’m ready to spend the day with the fishes.”_

_Alexandre laughed. “Alright then, son, let’s go—the fish are waiting.”_

_d’Artagnan fondly remembered tossing in chunks of freshly baked bread just to watch the fish swarm to their boat and fight over the pieces of bread. He would sit amazed at the activity in the water as an engaging feeding frenzy ensued. . ._

“d’Artagnan, get moving!” Porthos yelled from behind as he pushed on the young man’s boots to get his attention. The large Musketeer watched as the Gascon stopped to watch the water, seemingly in a trance, while oblivious to the fragments kicking up dirt around where the men lay. 

“What. . .?” d’Artagnan asked in a daze.

“You can daydream later, whelp, but now is _not_ the time,” Porthos shoved at the Gascon’s feet again. “I’m stuck ou’ in the open back ‘ere!”

d’Artagnan quickly low-crawled to the last pier, just before the bank of the canal. “Hurry up, Porthos!” the Gascon cried to his friend as a canister exploded nearby, kicking up clouds of dust and dirt. He threw himself against the wall, hugging the ground closely, as pieces of metal buzzed through the archway like a swarm of angry bees.

Porthos took the right side of the archway, opposite of where d’Artagnan lay huddled close to the curved wall on the left. The two friends were no more than twenty feet apart but it might as well have been a city block.

Most of the Musketeers were hugging the ground, while others were standing flush with the pier’s outer walls facing south, opposite of the cannon barrage. Suddenly, a fire of grapeshot exploded, wounding two men with a spray of lead balls.

Athos then realized that his men were surrounded and were being targeted from positions held on higher ground near the fortified city, exposing both sides of the bridge to danger.

“Get away from the piers,” the captain yelled to men. “Take cover inside the archways and stay down, as close to the walls as you can. Stay away from the ends where they can see you—they have us under surveillance and they see our every move. Dammit!” Athos cursed over the thundering din.

“We’re going to have to dig in here,” Aramis yelled to Athos. “Unless we can cross the canal and take cover behind those trees,” the medic pointed to a grove of trees just right of the bridge.

“No, the Spaniards would cut us to pieces,” Athos countered. “It appears they have the high ground all around us. Every time we make a move, they have their mark on us,” the captain shook his head angrily. “We’re safer if we stay here; the bridge should protect us fairly well enough.”

“Unless they try demolishing the bridge… and us along with it,” Aramis added with obvious agitation at their predicament.

“Well, if we stay under here long enough, that’s a strong possibility.”

“How are we going to get out of here?” Aramis asked.

“Since it’s quite evident that they have us under surveillance, we’re going to have to wait until dark before we can make a move.” Athos carefully studied the walled city just up the hill from the bridge.

“So close,” Aramis followed his captain’s eyes to the fortress sitting atop the hill, “yet so far away.”

“We don’t know where the enemy is positioned exactly or how many are out there.” Athos scanned the scenery outside the archway and frowned. “In fact, it would be better if I sent out a scout team tonight to reconnoiter first; they can determine if there is a safe path into Carcassonne.”

“And until then. . .?”

“Until then, we dig in,” Athos resolved, his jaw set. “Men, keep your heads down and don’t give them an easy target,” the captain yelled loudly enough for all the Musketeers to hear. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir,” echoed the answer from down the line.

“God help us,” Aramis muttered as he crossed himself.

**Earlier, Castelnaudary:**

“Captain Athos, five days ago I sent a messenger to General Henri de Turenne and Minister Tréville in the city of Carcassonne for a status report on their plans for my army. I need to know whether I will be leading my troops into Spain for an attack and, if attack is imminent, I need the general’s planned route and target locations.” Lieutenant General François de Créquy pounded his fist down on the desk.

Athos stood at attention, keeping his eyes forward, as he quietly listened to the young general rant angrily.

“I haven’t heard back from Carcassonne and I can’t move my troops until I have word from the general and the minister of what their plans are,” the French army commander scrubbed a hand down his face. 

“Sir, I can take a company of Musketeers to Carcassonne to determine the status of Minister Tréville and General de Turenne, if you would have us go,” Captain Athos offered.

“Yes, Captain, take your Musketeers into Carcassonne and send back a messenger with the general’s orders as soon as possible.”

“Sir, it is possible that the enemy has troops in the area and your messengers were taken hostage,” Athos studied the map. “I would like to take about thirty of my men,” he paused, “just in case we run into any problems.”

“Thirty men should be sufficient, since we know not of the situation down there,” de Créquy nodded. “But if you run across the enemy, chances are that you will be greatly outnumbered. According to General Turenne’s orders, I cannot move my troops unless I hear from Carcassonne.”

“Understood,” the captain nodded.

“Captain,” the general continued, “should you need our help—if Carcassonne is under attack—send a messenger requesting help and I will come with my troops immediately. Communication is imperative, Captain. I _must_ know what General de Turenne and Minister Tréville want me to do with my troops.”

“Very well, sir,” Captain Athos turned to leave. “I will form up my company and we will leave at once.”

**Later, Pont Vieux, Carcassonne:**

Captain Athos and his small company of Musketeers rode south toward the walled city of Carcassonne without incident until they reached the Pont Vieux crossing over the Aude River.

As the Musketeers arrived at the bridge, a musket ball whizzed by the ear of Captain Athos and hit the man riding behind him. Another ball zipped by d’Artagnan’s head, who ducked as another ball flew past.

“Who the hell is shootin’ at us?” Porthos yelled as a ball flew past him, he ducked to the side and crouched low.

“I don’t know but. . .” Athos began but was cut off as a grapeshot ball exploded nearby, sending a cluster of lead balls zipping dangerously close to both horses and Musketeers with lightning speed.

“Dismount and take cover under the bridge!” the captain ordered his men.

The Musketeers flew out of the saddles and ran to the safety of the arched bridge as the horses ran off in a fright the opposite direction. The men bunched up in a horde around the first arch of the bridge, attracting the fire of the Spanish cannon and muskets now zeroed in on their position.

“We need to spread out,” yelled Porthos to the captain, “or we’re all going to be killed!”

“How deep is the river?” d’Artagnan asked aloud but received only shrugs and a shake of the head from Porthos and Aramis in response.

“It’s not that deep,” the captain said. Actually, he didn’t really know the depth of the water but swimming across the river to safety sure beat sitting idle, exposed to the enemy’s lethal gunfire and cannon shot.

“Follow me,” Captain Athos ordered as he stepped into the water. “Keep your powder and weapons above water; it appears the river is only waist deep.”

Aramis followed directly behind Athos, holding his powder horn and pistols in his hands as he crossed. Porthos and d’Artagnan, and the remainder of the uninjured men followed behind, some ducking under water as musket balls splashed into the river.

Porthos and d’Artagnan hugged the stone pier as musket balls whizzed by and splashed into the water and the muddy riverbank. 

“Go on, hurry up!” Porthos ordered the men behind him to go on around him. The large Musketeer exchanged worried glances with the Gascon as they watched two Musketeers writhing and sinking in the water after being shot.

“You get Huguet,” d’Artagnan yelled to Porthos, “and I’ll get Auzenne.” The young Musketeer waded out to the wounded men only to be stopped short by a strong grip to his arm.

“If we go out there to rescue them, it’s suicide,” Porthos growled. “Bloody hell, we can’t leave ‘em though either. Dammit!” The large man rushed into the water to retrieve Huguet, only to see the man’s body jump as two musket balls hit their target from somewhere in the trees.

“Dammit to hell!” Porthos yelled as he swam quickly back to the safety of the riverbank and the stone pier. He turned to find d’Artagnan pulling Auzenne behind him by an arm just as a ball hit the Gascon in the upper arm, causing him to lose grip on the wounded Musketeer. 

“Damn!” the Gascon cursed but managed to reach out and catch the Musketeer as he started to float away. Suddenly, a ball hit the downed man in the head with a sickening thud. “God, no!” d’Artagnan cried as he fell backward and began to sink under the water.

Porthos leaped into the water after his friend, grabbing him by the collar to stop him from being carried downriver by the current. “I’ve got you,” the large man sputtered as he tried keeping his own head above the water as d’Artagnan splashed and fought against the hand pulling him. “Stop fighting me, pup, I’ve got you.”

d’Artagnan stopped fighting and allowed himself to be pulled by Porthos to the riverbank and the safety of the bridge. The large man dragged himself and the Gascon out of the water to crouch low behind the stone pier on the grassy island. They sadly watched as Huguet and Auzenne were caught by the current, their dead bodies floated away without last rites or ceremony. 

“Get behind the piers, into the archways,” yelled Athos to the men. “Don’t crowd together—spread out,” he ordered.

**Present Time, Pont Vieux, Carcassonne:**

“I hope the scouts will find a way to get into the walled city tonight,” Aramis sighed. “I don’t know how long we will last, pinned down like this.”

“We’re low on ammunition. . .” Athos stopped himself. He closed his eyes and sighed at the desperate situation he and his Musketeers have found themselves in but, for the sake of the men, as captain, he must appear strong. If this situation was meant to be a test of his leadership skills, Athos didn’t know if he would have the ability to get his men out of this seemingly impossible predicament alive. 

The captain ached with the pressure of command, knowing the weight of his decisions meant life or death for his men. Whether he was ready for it or not, Athos held the lives and the welfare of the remaining Musketeers in his hands. The captain determined that he would do everything possible to get these men to Carcassonne alive, but groaned knowing they were in for the fight of their lives—in every literal sense. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pont Vieux: In 1315, construction began on the Pont Vieux, crossing the Aude River just in front of the old walled city of Carcassonne, France. The bridge has 13 arches, varying in diameter from 10 to 14 meters. It is known that two arches collapsed in 1436, and were restored. In 1559 and thereafter, several changes have been made without the original character of the bridge being affected. The 1820 restoration of the original shape of the bridge was the most affected change—evidently, there was a large bridgehead on the left bank that was torn down. The grassy island between the river and the canal remains unchanged from the earliest of time, from the photos I've checked. Every year on Bastille Day, they have a grand fireworks display over Carcassonne and you can watch the display ON the bridge and surrounding area, with 100,000 of your closest friends!
> 
> Bridge terminology:  
> Pier: A pier, in architecture, is an upright support or column for a structure such as an arch or a bridge. The Arc de Triomphe in Paris is supported by 4 massive planar piers.


	2. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos shivered as a cold wind blew through the archway. Droplets of rain fell but soon stopped, as though the clouds were unsure of whether to let go of their watery load. “Damn, this is going to be a long night.”

The sun was starting to set in the western sky behind their position under the bridge. Shadows cast from the fortified city darkened the landscape in with an eerie foreshadowing of the night ahead.

Athos crawled to the last pier on the grassy island to check on Porthos and d’Artagnan and the other Musketeers holding down the flank and the end of the bridge.

“How’s the arm, d’Artagnan?” Athos motioned his chin to the bandaged arm.

“Sore, but Aramis said that the ball passed through, missing the bone so it’s not as bad as it could have been; but I had to give up part of my shirt sleeve for the bandage.” d’Artagnan grumbled, but then instantly regretted, as he watched worry crease his captain’s brow. “I’ll be fine, Captain,” he smiled.

“Captain,” Porthos crawled over to the side where Athos sat with d’Artagnan. “Have you decided who is going out there tonight on ‘at recon scout?”

“No,” Athos shook his head. The captain deliberately delayed making the decision for the scout team, knowing full well he could be sending men to their death. “I haven’t decided yet,” he admitted wearily.

“I volunteer to go, Captain,” Porthos offered, sensing the hesitation on Athos’ part to make the difficult decision.

“I’ll go too, Captain,” d’Artagnan quickly submitted, despite his wounded arm.

“No,” Athos immediately rejected both of the eager offers to go out on the scout. “d’Artagnan, you are wounded—your arm is hurt,” he stated the obvious. “Porthos, I need someone here who is able to fight, if need be, since we don’t know what is out there,” he pointed toward the fortress.

“I can fight my way up ‘at hill,” Porthos growled.

“No, Porthos, I need you here,” Athos answered curtly.

“But you just said that you needed someone who can fight,” Porthos reminded his captain. “I can fight out there, Athos!”

“The answer is no, and that’s final,” Athos snapped. “I need to get back,” the captain crawled back to the middle arch of the bridge where Aramis was cleaning a Musketeer’s wounded shoulder.

“Is he okay?” Athos asked the medic, taking notice of the scowl on Aramis’ face. 

“Yes, as good as can be expected, under the circumstances,” he shook his head. “I can’t guarantee the men won’t get infections when the only cloth I have is repeatedly used; I can only rinse the cloth in the river before I move on to the next man. This isn’t the most sanitary of conditions down here under this bridge.”

"Yes, I know but…” Athos sighed. “We have no other choice, Aramis,” he said, resting a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just do the best you can to help the men.”

“Who are you sending out tonight?” Aramis asked, looking out at the nearly-darkened night sky.

“Damn,” Athos sighed once again. He knew that he’d have to answer the question eventually, might as well be now. “I’m going to send Béringer and Michaud. They’ve both done scouting missions such as this before; I think they’ll do well with reconnaissance of the area.”

“Yes, I think they’re both good men for the job.” Aramis smiled. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” Athos answered. “I need to go brief Béringer and Michaud,” he said abruptly as he crawled away.

Aramis watched as Athos crawled to the next archway and shook his head. He knew his friend wasn’t _fine._ He also knew that Athos was under a lot of pressure having to make such difficult decisions in a difficult circumstance. However, he was smart enough to know that it was best to let the matter drop—Athos wouldn’t discuss it anyway.

Athos completed the instructions for the recon mission as the night sky was completely black. Béringer and Michaud low-crawled through the grass, slipping quietly into the canal water without making a sound. They slid through the mud on the opposite bank to slither away, up the hill and out of sight of the men watching them.

The captain scrubbed a hand down his face and let out a long, anxious breath. He stared up the hill into the darkness, as though willing to follow them with his eyes into the pitch-black void.

The night sky was cloudy, threatening rain with ominous clouds. The quarter moon was covered with a thick blanket of rainclouds, keeping the light to a sporadic minimum. Athos was grateful his men would be effectively concealed under a blanket of darkness; yet he wondered how effectively they could reconnoiter in the dark.

Under the bridge, inside the archways, the Musketeers couldn’t see their hands in front of their face and had to carefully feel their way around. If they had to move they did so on all fours, waving their hands out in front of them as _feelers;_ though most men decided it would be better to stay put and not move around at all.

Athos was grateful the men couldn’t see the worry on his face, especially the three brothers he considered so dear to him. Since becoming captain of the Musketeer regiment, Athos couldn’t show favoritism to his friends and had withdrawn his companionship after hours—only to forge a new sense of loneliness. During the duty day, especially, he was particularly careful in how he interacted with his three friends, in order to be fair and impartial to all the men.

On occasion, his three friends found their way to his office, where drinks and conversation behind closed doors was a special treat—and was no one else’s business but theirs. It was like old times again; they would pick up where they left off the last time such a meeting occurred, as though nothing had changed. Athos looked forward to their visits, relishing in their companionship, as the special visits replenished the empty place in his heart caused by the loneliness of command.

Time and the responsibilities of command, however, would never diminish his affection for the men he thought of as brothers. Those three men _were_ his brothers—one doesn’t forget family simply because of a promotion. 

“Listen up,” Athos called into the darkness, his voice sounded hollow as it echoed through the archway. “Since we can’t see due to the darkness, I need all of you to stay alert; stay close to the man next to you and don’t go anywhere for _any_ reason. The less movement from you in here will make you more able to hear movement coming from outside. Keep your ears open to sounds outside the bridge; listen for movement in the water. Thankfully, no one can reach us without going through the water, or coming to us from above on the bridge.”

“Captain, they know where we are but we don’t know where they are,” said Musketeer Lefévre. “We’re at a rather large disadvantage in here.”

“I understand that, Lefévre,” Athos acknowledged. “Use your sense of hearing; it will be our only alert to the enemy’s approach in the darkness. Under _no_ circumstance are any of you to light a fire—no matter how cold you get tonight. I want someone in your group to be awake at all times during the night,” Athos instructed. “Assign sleeping shifts, if that will help, but make sure someone is awake and aware of their surroundings at all times.”

“Yes sir,” the men answered in unison.

“Remember, your lives and the lives of your brothers depend upon you listening for approaching enemy soldiers; their lives depend on you to stay alert. I will be moving between piers to check on you,” Athos paused as his voice trailed.

“Captain,” d’Artagnan interrupted, “if you’re going to be moving around between the three archways it’s going to make noise, sir. There might be someone who will already be on edge, they’ll panic and then. . .” he paused.

“That's right, who’s to say someone doesn’t stab you in the dark thinkin’ you were the enemy sneakin’ up on ‘em, eh?” Porthos stated matter-of-factly with a low growl. 

“That’s a good point, Porthos,” Athos frowned to himself. “I’ll announce myself with a secret word…” the captain tried to think of something good the enemy would never guess.

“How about Roger?” d’Artagnan suggested. “The enemy certainly won’t know the name of your first horse.”

“Roger,” Athos repeated, suddenly thinking of the horses that scattered. He thought of his newest horse, Kim, and wondered where she was.

As if reading his mind, Porthos voiced concern for the horses out loud. “I wonder where the horses ran off to?” he asked. “They’re probably halfway to Paris by now.” 

“Mm,” d’Artagnan sounded his objection. “I think the horses will stay close. They were scared away, yes, but they’re expecting us to come back and get them. They’re probably grazing someplace safer than around here.”

“Alright, if you hear the code word _‘Roger’_ it’s me coming to check on you,” the captain ordered. “Do you all understand your orders for tonight and the code word to listen for?” he waited for a response.

“Yes sir,” they echoed in unison.

“Good," he nodded, though no one could see him nod. “Stay alert and keep your ears open for _any_ movement.” Athos crawled away to give the same speech to the next group of men, and then the group after that.

Finally, he crawled back to the archway where Aramis was backed against the stone wall, getting a glimpse of his friend in the brief respite of moonlight. _“Roger,”_ he said to be safe, following his own orders to the men earlier. He sat beside his friend with their shoulders touching as the clouds covered the moon and, once again, it went black.

“Are you sure we’re going to stay safe tonight without the Spaniards sneaking up on us,” Aramis whispered quietly.

Athos shook his head, worried about that very possibility.

“Um, Athos,” Aramis paused, “I can’t hear a nod or shake of the head and, in case you forgot, I can’t see it either.”

“Sorry,” Athos huffed with amusement. “I’m not sure about anything tonight, Aramis, except that the enemy can’t see out there any better than us.”

“What if they drop down on us from on top of the bridge?” the medic whispered. “We’ll never hear them coming until it’s too late.”

“I don’t know,” Athos whispered back with uncertainty. “It’s risky in the dark and they might fall, but we better be ready for them in case they do come that way.”

“I just hope it doesn’t come to that.” Aramis went quiet as his mind wandered, thinking of Minister Tréville inside the fortress. “Do you think he knows about us down here?”

“Do I think _who_ knows about us down here?” Athos asked, confused.

“Tréville,” Aramis clarified. “Do you think they can see us from up there? I mean, when it’s daylight outside, that is?”

“Yes, I’m sure they can see everything around the vicinity for many leagues from up there—they may have even seen us approaching the fortress,” Athos surmised. “But they may also be as trapped inside the cité as we are trapped down here,” his heart suddenly filled with dread. If the Spaniards have laid siege to the walled city, they can’t come out to help without endangering themselves—which means the trapped Musketeers were in serious trouble.

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow if they can help us down here,” Aramis hoped.

Athos shivered as a cold wind blew through the archway. Droplets of rain fell but soon stopped, as though the clouds were unsure of whether to let go of their watery load. “Damn, this is going to be a long night.”

“You could sit closer and just go to sleep,” Aramis suggested. “I don’t bite, you know.”

“No,” Athos rejected the offer. “I should get moving and check on the men. I need to make sure someone stays awake in each one of the archways.”

Athos crawled away, doing his best to be quiet. He felt for the wall of the archway and followed it as he slowly made his way to the pier, then he turned left toward the canal. Remembering his own order, he paused at the pier’s end before entering into the archway.  
_“Roger,”_ he whispered at his arrival.

“Captain,” Porthos answered in the dark from somewhere on Athos’ left.

“Where are you?” the captain asked, feeling out with his hand in front of him.

“Over here,” Porthos called quietly. “Just follow my voice… I’m right here.”

Athos crawled until he ran right into the large Musketeer, softly knocking heads with his friend. “Sorry,” he apologized. “How are you holding up?”

“We’re doin’ a’ight, Cap’n,” Porthos replied tiredly. From somewhere deeper inside the archway, someone let out a loud snore… and then another.

“Hey, whoever is next to that man, nudge him awake—make him be quiet!” Athos ordered with a harsh whisper.

D’Artagnan not-so-gently nudged the snoring man, “Hey, wake up!”

“There will be _no_ snoring,” the captain ordered. “There is to be no noise of any kind, period,” Athos scolded quietly. “If you can’t sleep without snoring then stay awake… and that’s an order.”

“Sorry, Captain,” the man apologized.

“You alright, d’Artagnan?” Athos whispered.

“Yes sir,” d’Artagnan answered with a yawn. “‘M just tired,” he left his spot deeper in the tunnel to sit beside Porthos.

“Get some sleep, pup,” Porthos wrapped his arm around the Gascon and pulled him in close to keep him warm. “I’ll stay awake for a while.”

D’Artagnan readily complied, resting his head on the larger man’s shoulder as he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

“You should get some sleep too, Athos,” Porthos advised.

“No, I need to stay awake,” the captain shook his head. “I have to be alert and watch over the men. I can’t risk going to sleep, it’s too dangerous.”

For the next several hours, Athos crawled from archway to archway checking on the men while also checking for any danger around the bridge. His body ached and his fingers were numb from crawling on the cold ground. Despite moving around for hours, he was shivering when he crawled back into the archway to sit beside Aramis.

Aramis felt the shaking beside him and pulled his friend in close, feverishly rubbing his hands up and down Athos’ arms to warm him. “You should get some rest,” he whispered.

“No, I’m f-fine,” Athos stammered from the chill. He was too wound up and too cold to sleep but sat quietly, as Aramis slept, keeping his ears perked to the outside for strange noises.

Suddenly, Athos heard a twig snap at the end of their archway. He sat up, and with the clouds having parted, he could see the silhouette of two soldiers creeping toward the bridge from the nearby trees.

Athos covered the sleeping medic’s mouth as he gently shook Aramis awake and then pointed to the men sneaking their way to the bridge through the grass. The captain pulled out his dagger as Aramis did the same; together the two Musketeers crawled their way to beside the piers where they crouched, waiting for the approaching enemy.

With lightning speed, Athos sprang to his feet as the men neared. He covered the first Spaniard’s mouth to keep him from alerting his comrades. In one fluid motion, the captain sliced the man’s throat and followed up with a stab of his dagger deep into the artery of the intruder’s neck, all the while keeping his hand covering the man’s mouth.

Aramis mirrored Athos’ movements with dashing precision as he covered the second Spaniard’s mouth and then sliced open his neck. The medic expertly twisted the knife to make the wound tear and bleed out faster while keeping his mouth covered, preventing him from screaming out. When the Spaniard stopped moving, Aramis let him fall to the ground.

Looking to his left, Athos saw the shadows of more soldiers approaching in the dark. He sprang into action and ran to wake Porthos and d’Artagnan, “Enemy soldiers approaching!” he yelled to alert all the Musketeers.

Porthos and d’Artagnan bolted from their hiding spots inside the archway to pounce on the enemy soldiers before they could even enter the archway. The Musketeers each buried their daggers deep in the necks of their assailants, while twisting the blades to give them absolute lethal wounds. They were careful to keep the mouths of the enemy covered to prevent them from calling out for help.

Soon, Musketeers in each of the archways were engaged in struggles with approaching Spaniards that had hoped to catch the men completely by surprise. Musketeer Baraque was still asleep, unaware of the fighting going on around him, and was attacked by a Spaniard who dug his dagger deep into the sleeping man’s neck, killing him instantly.

Musketeer St. Vincent grabbed the Spaniard from behind to slice the man’s throat with his main gauche from one ear to the other. He let the man drop to the ground as the gurgling sounds from his cut throat faded to silence.

The remaining Spaniards retreated back up the hill as quickly and quietly as they arrived. After the hysteria of the attack ceased, Athos dared to call out to his men, “Is everyone alright?”

Sporadic affirmations were called out, though the captain couldn’t tell who the voices were or how many answered. “Gentlemen, call out your names so I can tell how many are hurt,” he ordered.

The captain waited as he listened to the sounding off of the names in the darkness around him. “Captain,” St. Vincent reported, “Baraque is dead, sir.”

“No…” Athos groaned, closing his eyes at the news. “Alright, cover Baraque with his cloak for now; we’ll take care of him in the morning.”

“Yes sir.”

Athos sighed wearily as he crawled away to the next archway to get their reports, listening as each man called out his name. The captain crawled to the last archway, listening to the roll call and groaned aloud once again as he received the report of another fatality. “Sir, Levéque is dead.”

“Dammit!” Athos cursed at the news. If the Spaniards were this daring in the dark, what would the daylight bring? Athos shuddered as he thought of what the rising sun might bring with it to his small band of Musketeers—now an additional two men short.

Athos looked to the eastern sky to see the first brushes of color spreading across the horizon. He breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that their wretchedly cold night was almost over; yet his heart filled with dread with thoughts of facing another day fighting the enemy. He knew the daylight would bring with it all of Hell’s fury with a shower of cannon fire and gunfire alike.

The captain knew he and his men had better be prepared to face the certain firefight that was coming in the morning. The Musketeers would be facing another day trapped under the bridge, unless the scout team returned to report of a way into the fortress. Somewhere deep inside, Athos knew there was no way into that fortress. If there was a way in, the enemy surely would have found it; but the walled city of Carcassonne has stood impregnable since the 14th century.

Athos could hope, but he intuitively knew that he and his Musketeers would be stuck under the bridge to face another day pinned down by heavy fire. He eagerly awaited the return of the scout team but didn’t hold out much hope for what they would find. With a growing sense of foreboding, Athos wondered how many men would survive the new day… or if any of them would survive at all.

He shook his head wearily, “God help us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I wanted to paint the dilemma that Captain Athos would find himself in as the commander of the Musketeers. If any of you are Star Trek fans (of the original series), I would equate Athos with Captain Kirk, who had two very close and dear friends, but yet was responsible for an entire crew of men and women and was not allowed to show favoritism or partiality to anyone. In private, Captain Kirk and Athos could show their "brotherly affection," but in the open, the captains would have to be watchful of their behavior. Privately, Captain Kirk was very lonely, and would only admit to being such on rare occasions. I think Captain Athos would feel the exact same way.
> 
> Perhaps Athos would privately long for the days when he was free to show his brotherly affection, to enjoy his friend's company over drinks and conversation; but as captain, he could no longer show such favoritism without it affecting the morale of his regiment. If such favoritism was openly shown, the other men would soon become embittered and would no longer respect their captain and, most probably, would not care to follow his leadership on the battlefield. It is indeed "lonely at the top."


	3. The Captain Has All the Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The captain is all-knowing, all-powerful; don’t ever tell the men ‘I don’t know.’ Those three words, ‘I don’t know,’ will kill the men in your regiment—just the same as an enemy ball.”_

The morning sun was just cresting on the eastern horizon as Captain Athos saw the figure of a man pulling himself with great difficulty toward their position at the bridge. He pulled out his main gauche and stood ready until the figure got closer.

A ray of sunlight highlighted the Musketeer’s pauldron as the man pulled himself through the tall grass with bloodied hands. “Captain…” Musketeer Béringer said just before he collapsed.

“Oh God,” d’Artagnan said, jumping out from his position where he was also watching the approaching figure, to go retrieve the wounded man.

“D’Artagnan, no!” yelled the captain to the foolhardy Musketeer but the young Gascon was already halfway up the hill to help bring the man back to safety. The captain watched anxiously, his eyes darting all around the hillside looking for signs of the enemy.

D’Artagnan grabbed the Musketeer by his doublet and pulled as he ran back down the hill with his patient in tow. “Sorry, Béringer, but I don’t have time to be gentle here,” the Gascon apologized as he dragged the man quickly toward the bridge. “It’s better to be dragged to safety than to be shot as we take our sweet time!”

A sudden a shot rang out, the ball kicked up dust as it hit the ground near d’Artagnan’s foot. “Damn, that was close!” the Gascon muttered as he reached the safety of the bridge.

“That was a foolish thing to do!” Athos snapped as he grabbed d’Artagnan by the arm. “You could have gotten yourself shot—you damn near did!”

“I did what I had to do to save a wounded brother,” d’Artagnan snapped back, jerking his arm away. “You would’ve done the same thing, before…”

“As captain, I can’t afford to take foolish chances,” Athos countered. “Don’t be so eager to make yourself a target,” the captain’s tone softened. Besides, could he really fault d’Artagnan for being foolish in his actions when he saw so much of himself in his young protégé? 

Aramis was already tending to the wounded man but judging from the severity of the bleeding and the medic’s frown, Athos was not anticipating good news. “How is he, Aramis?”

“Dammit!” Aramis cursed, feeling completely helpless and unable to do anything but make Béringer comfortable. “Not good, Captain, he’s in bad shape and I have _nothing_ here to help him. Dammit to hell!” the medic threw aside his hat in frustration.

“Do what you can for him,” Athos sighed. “I’m beginning to sound repetitive,” he huffed in disgust. “My words ring hollow, even to my own ears; I’m not exactly inspiring.”

“This isn’t exactly an inspiring situation we’re in, Athos.” D’Artagnan clapped his friend on the shoulder and gently squeezed. “You’ve gotten us this far, Captain; I know you’ll get us out of here safely.”

Just then, a thunderous roar rocked the ground and shook the archway as a ball hit the bridge directly above them. Aramis leaned over Béringer as stone fragments rained down around them.

“Dammit!” Athos cursed. “Get deeper inside the archways—get away from the ends,” the captain ordered, yelling over the noise of the explosions. “Get as close to the walls and the ground as you can!”

Aramis held a cloth to Béringer’s chest wound to try to slow the bleeding, but the man was growing weaker. The medic knew Béringer was dying and that he was completely helpless to stop it. _One more Musketeer lost to this cursed bridge; how many more will there be?_

The Musketeers stayed down, riding out the attack which began their second day underneath the centuries-old bridge.

As the cannonballs hit their mark and caused showers of stone and dust, Athos wondered how long the bridge would hold up under such violent treatment. Nevertheless, he was grateful for such fine craftsmanship that has withstood hundreds of years. 

There was little the Musketeers could do but endure the fiery storm until it abated, praying they would make it through unscathed. The captain needed to talk to Béringer to find out what happened to Michaud and whether they found a way into the fortress, though he was sure he already knew the answer.

Finally, after some moments of silence the men cautiously raised their heads, dazed and apprehensive of the damage they would find.

“Is everyone alright?” Athos looked around at the men huddled on the ground inside the archway, “is anyone hurt?”

“I’ve got a few nicks here and there,” said one man on the end, “but I think we’re all okay.”

Athos crawled to the adjoining archway, “is anyone hurt in here?”

“DuFour and Joubert were hit, Captain,” Normandeau called out. “I don’t think it’s serious though.”

“Dammit, how many more will be hurt while we’re stuck in this god-forsaken place?” Athos muttered under his breath. “Do what…” he stopped himself short, not wishing to repeat that phrase again. “Try and help them, Normandeau, please.”

“Yes, Captain,” the Musketeer nodded as he crawled to help his wounded comrades.

Athos crawled back to Béringer and Aramis. The medic held a soaked-through cloth tightly against the chest wound, trying to slow the bleeding.  
“Béringer,” Captain Athos wiped away the sweaty hair from the man’s forehead. “Where is Michaud?”

“Mich… Michaud was… was stabbed, sir,” the man gasped. “We made it t-to the wall… to the gate but… it’s surrounded by Span… Spaniards. Like ants, they poured… poured out of their foxholes. No… no way to get to the gate,” Michaud reported. “Enemy is… waiting to kill… to kill anyone that moves. Cité cant open… open gate either… or they’re all dead.”

Aramis and Athos exchanged horrified glances at the news. The anguished glances spoke volumes without a single word necessary to convey the dread in their hearts.

“I- I’m sssorry, C-Captain… sssorry.” Béringer’s head lolled to the side and he breathed no more.

“I’m sorry too, Béringer,” the captain hung his head in despair as his shoulders drooped. Athos felt empty—helpless. How was he going to get his men to safety? If this continued much longer, there wouldn’t be anyone left to save. “God…” his breath hitched.

He felt a comforting hand on each shoulder, squeezing gently. “We’ll find another way out o’ ‘ere,” Porthos whispered encouragingly. 

“That’s right, we’ll think of something, Captain,” d’Artagnan’s eyes misted. His heart ached for his mentor who looked broken and burdened for the lives he was charged to protect. With every life lost, the burden grew heavier and the guilt heightened.

“We can’t reach the fortress,” Porthos motioned with his chin, “and they can’t reach us. What about goin’ back to Castelnaudary? Maybe the Spanish don’t have the western roads watched, eh?”

“Hey, that’s an idea, Athos!” d’Artagnan perked up. “Do you think it might work?”

“It could work, Athos,” Aramis piped in. “We didn’t see any sign of the enemy on our way here, not until we arrived at the bridge.”

“That just might work,” Athos nodded in agreement. “We’ll wait until the cover of darkness again…” his voice trailed. “Wait,” the captain frowned as a thought came to mind. “We have no horses; it’s too far to walk, considering the urgency of our situation.”

“We can always _borrow_ a horse, or two,” d’Artagnan suggested.

“You mean steal, don’t you?” Aramis corrected with a grin.

“No one is stealing anything,” the captain interrupted. “Our horses scattered when we were attacked, it’s possible that they didn’t go far but are lingering nearby.”

The three Musketeers huffed with amusement at the thought of their horses _lingering_ about, waiting for their owners to join them already.

“I’ll send out another scout team tonight after dark,” Athos resolved with a nod.

“I’d like to volunteer,” three voices chimed in unison.

*****

**Later:**

“No, you’re not going,” Athos rejected the repeated requests from his three friends to volunteer for the upcoming dangerous mission.

“Dammit, Athos,” Aramis slammed his fist on the ground in frustration. “You give me one good reason, one _valid_ reason, why Porthos or d’Artagnan or I can’t go on this mission?”

“I don’t _have_ to give you a reason,” Athos countered. “I am the captain and you just have to accept my decision and not question it.”

“You seemed to have forgotten that we’re your friends—your brothers. We’ve known you for years, Athos, long before you ever became captain,” Aramis replied back.

“Normally, I would accept a captain’s decision and no’ question it,” Porthos frowned, “but I’m wit’ ‘Mis. Why can’t we go, _Captain?”_ the Musketeer deliberately emphasized the rank.

A low growl sounded from Athos’ throat, clearly losing patience with the relentless line of questioning. The captain took a deep breath, attempting to calm his rising temper. Finally, he sighed as he looked at his three friends watching him with questioning eyes.

“Rousseau and Lefévre are from the Languedoc region and they are familiar with the roads around here. They could walk the road from Carcassonne to Castelnaudary blindfolded,” Athos glanced at each of his friends. “If anyone is a perfect fit for this mission, it’s those two.”

The three friends were silent. They knew that Athos was a highly intelligent man who studied his enemies, closely observing their maneuvers, skills and tactics, strengths and weaknesses. Further, knowing where his own men grew up then fittingly assigning them to this mission was cleverly brilliant, and even they were taken by surprise.

Porthos raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Well, ‘at certainly makes sense.”

“Hmm, I’m impressed,” d’Artagnan huffed.

“Is that the _real_ reason, Captain,” Aramis narrowed his eyes, watching his friend closely. “Or is it because you don’t want to send your friends out there to d…” he stopped himself short.

“Aramis!” d’Artagnan scolded.

Aramis realized his mistake as soon as it slipped from his mouth. He cringed as he watched Athos flinch, as the captain was already aware that he could be sending two more men to their deaths. If death was such a real possibility, was he playing favorites now by _not_ sending his three best friends?

Athos turned to crawl away but Aramis caught him by the arm. “I’m sorry, Athos, I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean anything…” his breath hitched at the sadness in his friend’s eyes.

Athos just shook his head and crawled away, without saying a word. He crawled to the next archway to brief Rousseau and Lefévre a final time, though they’d been through the details over and again.

“If you can’t find our horses, _‘borrow’_ some; I know there are plenty of farms around this region,” Athos instructed. “Try your damnedest to get to Castelnaudary, gentlemen. I don’t need to remind you how much I am counting on you to get us some help.”

“Yes sir,” the men replied. “You don’t have to worry, Captain, we know these parts real well. We’ll reach Castelnaudary, sir,” said Rousseau. 

“I know you will,” Athos clapped them each on the shoulder. “Godspeed and good luck, boys.”

The Musketeers spent the remainder of the day waiting out sporadic storms of projectiles the Spaniards would force upon them. The men hugged the ground until their bodies were numb and their ears were ringing from the constant thunderous noise.

**Later That Night:**

“The orders from last night stand,” the captain told the groups of men in each archway. “Stay alert and listen for any noises out there. Somehow the enemy was able to sneak up on us last night—we can’t let that happen again. I want men on watch at each end of your archway at all times.”

Athos thought of crawling to the next archway to rejoin his three friends but decided to stay put, alone with his thoughts instead. He was worried about Rousseau and Lefévre and their safety out there in the dark. Would he be more upset at the loss of his two men, or the potential of them not reaching Castelnaudary to get help for those under the bridge?

 _What will I do if they don’t make it?_ Athos quickly pushed the thought from his mind—he would not even entertain that possibility.  
The three friends huddled together, trying to stay warm against the cold autumn evening. “Where is Athos?” d’Artagnan asked in a whisper.

“Prob’ly wants to be alone,” Porthos guessed. “He’s got a lot on his mind and we didn’t ‘xactly help matters, none.”

“You mean, _I_ didn’t exactly help matters,” Aramis corrected with a soft sigh. “I’m such an idiot. None of us can imagine the pressure he’s under right now,” he scrubbed a hand down his face as his heart filled with regret. “I’m going to go find him—make sure he’s alright.” Aramis crawled away to find Athos, with the help of the scant moonlight, huddled near the wall in the next archway, shivering uncontrollably from the cold.

 _“‘Roger,’”_ Aramis whispered. “Athos, you are one stubborn, thick-headed mule—do you know that?” Aramis chided in a harsh whisper. “It’s cold,” he forgot his apology. “You don’t have to be out here by yourself freezing half to death.”

Athos merely shook his head and drew himself in tighter, trying to stop the shaking.

Aramis sat next to Athos and pulled him in close, wrapping both arms around his shoulders. “Dammit, Athos, you are freezing!”

Athos let out a puff of frosty air which shimmered eerily in the moonlight, though he remained quiet.

“Why don’t you get some rest,” the medic suggested. He took in the haggard look of his captain’s face, noticing the deep lines of worry etched on his forehead and around his eyes. “You haven’t slept since we left Castelnaudary, Athos.”

“Dammit, I can’t sleep,” Athos snapped. “I can’t sleep when my men are dying around me and I’m helpless to stop it!”

“This isn’t your fault, Athos.” Aramis sat up and took his friend’s chin to turn toward him. “There is nothing that you could have done to prevent this… any of this,” he waved his hand around.

“I need to go check on the men,” he started to pull away.

“No you don’t,” Aramis pulled Athos back, “you stay put and rest. I’ll go get Porthos to come sit with you and then I will go check on the men. You’re no good to us, Athos, if you’re dead on your feet.” _That probably wasn’t the best choice of words._ Aramis thought.

The medic started to crawl away when they each heard the distinct sound of a cannon firing in the distance. From the corner of his eye, Aramis saw the flash of light just a split second before he heard the chilling whistle of an iron ball coming toward the bridge.

“Take cover!” Aramis screamed as he jumped on Athos, pushing him into the ground as the ball hit the bridge with a thunderous _smack!_

Screams reverberated off the walls as stone fragments went flying into the archway. Athos suddenly gasped in pain as a stone shard embedded in his shoulder, while at the same time a piece of stone ricocheted from off the opposite wall to hit him in the temple.

“Merde!” Aramis cursed as a fragment hit him on top of the head before bouncing into the dirt.

They heard another cannon fire, hitting the first pier that abutted the watery canal. Water sprayed over the bank, along with chunks of stone flying into the canal and archway alike.

The men braced themselves as they heard another cannon fire, followed by another on the hillside. The first ball landed in the river with a massive splash as it hit the water, showering the bridge and the grassy island with the spray. The second ball landed on the bridge, above the second arch. Large chunks of the parapet broke off and fell to the ground with a thud, followed by a rain of stone.

As quickly as it started, the cannon fire ended. It left a deafening silence as the men held their breath waiting for more hellfire, which never came. Silent curses were heard around the archways, but little else as the men were too stunned to move.

In the dim moonlight, Aramis could see Athos’ face colored with dark streaks streaming down into his beard. “You’re hit,” the medic squinted to get a better look but the clouds soon rolled over the slice of moon, creating a frightening blanket of darkness.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Aramis whispered into the darkness. Despite the fact that his friend sat right beside him, he couldn’t see him.

“In my right shoulder, I think I was hit with a piece of stone,” Athos admitted, his voice laced with pain.

“Where in your shoulder?” Aramis felt around and hit the stone shard with his fingers, causing Athos to jump while hissing in pain.

“Dammit, don’t touch!” Athos sucked in a pained breath hissing through clenched teeth. His chest heaved as he breathed through the waves of pain, clenching his eyes shut to stop the involuntary tears from rolling out.

“Merde, I can’t see!” Aramis cursed into the darkness.

“It will have to wait until morning,” Athos panted. “You can’t help me if you can’t even see what you are doing. Shouldn’t be too long of a wait, it will be dawn soon.”

“I need to go check on the rest of the men,” the captain stated but strong hands held him fast.

“No, you stay put,” the medic ordered. “If you go moving around, it’ll make you bleed worse. Just stay put—I’ll go check on everyone.”

Aramis crawled away, leaving Athos alone once again until he could fetch Porthos to sit with him. “Rousseau and Lefévre, please make it to Castelnaudary and help us get out of here alive,” Athos mumbled to himself.

Athos wasn’t normally a praying man, but tonight he was willing to try anything to ensure the safety of his men. If praying would release them from this quagmire they were trapped in, he was willing to do it. This was their second night under the bridge; soon they would be facing their third day. Once again, he fully expected more hell to welcome them in the daylight.

Years ago, there was a time when he had wished for death; hoping he would find it one day at the bottom of an empty bottle—but Porthos and Aramis had other ideas. Athos never felt he deserved their friendship or their worry over him. Had it not been for his two friends, he gladly would have let himself slip away into drunken oblivion… and ultimately, death.

Tonight, he was gripped by an impossible situation in which he wanted nothing more than to find relief in a few bottles of wine. But under this bridge, it wasn’t just about him anymore. Athos was Captain of the Musketeers and he had men counting on him to get them out of this situation alive.

He remembered advice former Captain Tréville offered him as they talked in his office over a drink. _“The captain has all the answers and the captain always knows what to do—whether he really does or not. The men are looking to you for answers; as captain, you must never hesitate or you put them at risk.”_

_“The captain doesn’t have the excuse of indecisiveness or weakness when men depend upon him to guide them on the battlefield, or to save them from certain death in an impossible situation.”_

_“The captain is all-knowing, all-powerful; don’t ever tell the men ‘I don’t know.’ Those three words, ‘I don’t know,’ will kill the men in your regiment—just the same as an enemy ball.”_

Athos sighed and rubbed his temples as he felt the pounding of a headache starting. The captain knew that Tréville’s advice was honest, and indeed wise, but even the most ingenious military commanders eventually experience loss. No one wins all of the time—everyone loses a battle eventually. 

If this is what it was like to die a slow and painful death, then Athos wished the Spaniards would hurry up with the inevitable and just get it over with. If this is where he and his men were chosen to die as Musketeers, as soldiers… then he prayed for a quick and merciful end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minister Tréville's inspiring speech to the new Captain Athos was inspired by two speeches given to Matthew McConaughey in one of my old favorite movies from 2000, _U-571._


	4. One Last Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This may be our last chance to go get help while there’s still _some_ of us alive! Athos, if we wait much longer, it’ll be too late.” d’Artagnan grasped Athos’s arm and squeezed, “you have to let us try, Athos.”

Morning light exposed the ruin and destruction the cannon fire brought to the bridge during the night. Large chunks of stone lay on the grass now covered with a thin layer of frost on the brisk, autumn morning.

Athos looked to the huddle of men on his left. They were alive, having escaped the overnight bombardment, and wondered about the other archways and how the men fared over there.

He tried to move but a heavy weight prevented him. The captain smiled as he saw Aramis sleeping, leaning against his chest with his head resting on his good shoulder. 

Athos squirmed out from under the medic’s weight but was overcome with a sudden flash of pain exploding from his right shoulder. His head swam with dizziness as his stomach revolted and he vomited sour bile, the only contents of his stomach after not having eaten for days.

“Athos?” a worried voice called. “Athos!” Aramis’ hand rubbed in soothing circles until the retching finally stopped. “Are you okay?”

Athos nodded, instantly regretting the movement. “Y-yes, I’m f-fine,” he shivered from the cold.

“Athos, let me take a look at those wounds now that I have some light and a moment before…” the medic paused.

The captain sighed, resigned to let the medic look at his wounds, indeed, while they had a moment of peace. “This needs to be cleaned,” Aramis frowned. The blood on his temple had dried and was now caked on the wound, making it hard to determine how deep the cut was. “I know that you need stitching, but I don’t have my sewing kit,” he sighed heavily. “Let me see your shoulder…” he tried to peel away the doublet but the jagged shard was embedded too deeply.

“Just leave it," Athos sighed, “you have nothing to stitch me up with anyway. If you pull the stone out it will start bleeding; I need to keep my wits about me, so just leave it.”

“Do you think they got through?” Aramis whispered as his thoughts drifted to Rousseau and Lefévre.

“I hope so,” Athos answered, avoiding his friend’s eyes. “I can’t bear the thought of another night under this damned bridge!” The captain took a deep breath to collect his emotions before continuing. “It's all we have …” 

“What…?” Aramis asked, slightly confused.

“Hope,” Athos whispered, “it’s all that we have left.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan joined their friends, both gasping at the bloodied sight of Athos and Aramis, whose heads were cut open by the broken stone fragments.

“Oh God, Athos, you were hit… and so were you, Aramis!” D’Artagnan blurted out as he studied the head wounds with concern. “Are you both okay?”

“We’re fine,” Athos answered for both of them as he forced a smile. “Is everyone alright over in your archway, anyone else hurt?”

“We all made it through without a scratch,” Porthos reported. “Seems ‘ike you all go’ the worst of it.”

“I’ll go see if I can get a cloth wet to clean that head wound,” Aramis said to Athos.

The morning silence was interrupted with loud yelling and ridiculing laughter coming from up on the hillside by the Spaniards. Athos looked at his friends, each exchanging confused glances. “What are they saying, ‘Mis?”

“I can’t tell, Athos,” Aramis strained to listen. Suddenly, his eyes went wide as he understood a particular jest involving the names of Rousseau and Lefévre, following by laughter and more jeers.

“What is it, Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked, but Aramis was already scrambling to the northern edge of the archway, with the others following close behind.

Two objects were catapulted toward the bridge, landing with a dull thud on the frozen ground and rolling to a stop when they hit the stone pier. Staring up at the men were the lifeless eyes of Rousseau’s and Lefévre’s severed heads.

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis crossed himself in horror at the gruesome sight.

“Oh God,” d’Artagnan gasped then fell to his knees and retched.

“God, no!” Athos groaned as he fell against the wall of the archway and slid limply to the ground. Porthos and Aramis were immediately at his side to catch their captain as his body tilted toward the earth. The large Musketeer grabbed Athos under the arms to pull him back to the southern end, away from the grisly sight.

“Athos… Athos, talk to me!” Aramis tapped the captain’s cheek to revive him. “Come on, Athos, open your eyes for me.”

“‘Mis…?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” the medic forced a smile. “Are you alright?”

Athos let out a groan, “am I alright?” he muttered. “No, dammit! No, I’m not… how? How do I tell their families I sent them to their deaths?”

“You didn’t send them to their deaths, Athos,” d’Artagnan corrected. “They volunteered for a dangerous mission in order to save our lives.”

“They died tryin’ to save us, Athos,” Porthos interjected. “Took a lot of courage to go out there into the dark…”

“They died trying to save us… and we’re still trapped,” Athos looked toward the river. “Now Rousseau and Lefévre are dead,” his eyes went cold. “They died for nothing.”

“They didn’t die for nothing, Captain,” Aramis corrected. “They displayed great courage when volunteering for a mission they knew might result in their deaths, yet they went willingly.” The medic clasped his hand on Athos’ shoulder and squeezed, “doesn’t that mean anything?”

“Ah, dammit, Aramis!” Athos growled with anger. “Don’t tell me that they died for _King and Country—_ that cliché has gotten old,” he spat . “We’re still trapped under this bridge and my men are dead… ” 

Suddenly a shot rang out, followed by the sound of a body falling to the ground.

“What in the hell happened?” Athos yelled angrily.

“Deschamps wanted to retrieve their heads… he tried to get their heads,” Musketeer Pierre reported. “We tried to stop him but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Everyone, listen to me,” Athos’ temper flared. “No one else moves,” Athos ordered. “Stay down, do you understand me?”

 _Boom!_ A cannon fired, then seconds later the ball crashed against the pier where the severed heads lay at the bottom, spraying the heads with fallen debris. The men jumped for cover, hugging the ground inside the archway as rock shards zipped by at lightning speed.

“Spaniards!” a shout warned as Spanish soldiers appeared from behind the pier across the canal. Enemy soldiers splashed through the shallow water to attack the weary Musketeers huddled inside the first archway.

Captain Athos and his men ran to the aid of their comrades, firing their pistols at every soldier who crossed the canal. Porthos pulled out his main gauche and stabbed the dagger into the back of a Spaniard as he aimed his pistol at a Musketeer. He pulled the dagger from the man’s back as he swiveled around to thrust the dagger into the neck of another Spaniard who had d’Artagnan by the throat. 

The soldier let go of d’Artagnan, dropping to the ground in a heap, just in time for the Gascon to fire his pistol and drop a Spaniard as he emerged from the canal water. “There’s more coming!” he yelled a warning.

Athos sparred with two Spaniards sporting daggers in their hands, but the Spanish duo couldn’t keep up with the more experienced Musketeer wielding a sword and main gauche, even with a wounded shoulder. The captain parried an attack from one soldier, then wheeled around to block a thrusting lunge with his main gauche from the other. 

Turning again on his heel, Athos got behind the second soldier to thrust his sword through the back, felling the man with his blade still deeply embedded. The captain returned his attention to the first soldier, distracting the man as he elegantly tossed his dagger from one hand to the other. He danced around his opponent, challenging him and daring the man to attack.

The Spaniard lunged but Athos was ready, easily side-stepping while thrusting his dagger deeply into the man’s back with a twist on his right foot. With his left hand, Athos pulled the sword from the dead man’s back to deflect a blow intended for d’Artagnan as the younger man dueled with two soldiers simultaneously. 

One of d’Artagnan’s opponents stumbled, allowing the Gascon to lunge his sword into the man’s chest; he quickly wheeled around to thrust his dagger into the neck of the second soldier, finishing them both off within seconds. “Damn,” the Gascon leaned over to catch his breath, “how many more are coming?”

D'Artagnan's question was answered when a Spaniard appeared wielding his musket as a club at Athos. The captain turned, catching the butt of the musket across the top of his right shoulder, knocking him to the ground. As the Spaniard stood over the captain to club him again, d'Artagnan ran his sword through the assailant's back, killing him instantly.

Meanwhile, Aramis deflected a striking blow with his sword raised, the clash of steel on steel echoed loudly under the bridge. The medic whirled around, circling his opponent as he sliced his rapier through the air, landing the sharp edge across the Spaniard’s neck. The enemy fell to the ground clutching his throat as his life’s blood poured out.

Porthos shifted from one foot to the other as he easily sparred against a Spaniard half his size. The man lunged at the Musketeer but Porthos simply kicked the man off his feet and then thrust his sword through the smaller man’s belly as he fell. He stood in place, waggling his fingers as a dare to the oncoming soldiers—deliberately provoking an attack—but there were no takers.

The remaining Spaniards fled, splashing across the canal then up the hill where they disappeared into the trees. Athos got to his feet and watched the retreating Spaniards, closely observing the exact movements of the grass and tree limbs to pinpoint the location where the enemy soldiers were positioned on the hill. He scanned the terrain, making mental notes of the landmarks of the area where he saw the soldiers running. Perhaps this would be valuable information at a later time, he thought to himself.

"Athos... damn, your shoulder!" Aramis cursed as he gently peeled back the doublet, wincing at the bloody gash.

"Ah, it's not that bad, Aramis," Athos huffed. "The Spaniard did me a favor and knocked the shard loose... seems my doublet caught most of the stone, my shoulder was just anchoring it."

"Well, I should at least wrap it," Aramis frowned.

Athos shook his head, "Aramis, take care of the other casualties first. How many do we have?"

The medic scrubbed a frustrated hand down his face. “We have four wounded, mostly cuts to the arms, one sliced shoulder… but I have no sewing kit,” he paused to think. “I can bind the wounds with strips of linen from volunteered shirts,” he sighed.

“Captain!” D’Artagnan ran up to Athos from the second archway. “Captain, sir, de la Fontaine and Félix are…”

“Are what?” Athos asked with a sense of dread.

“Um, sir, they are both… dead,” the last word spoken so low the captain barely heard. Athos did hear—loud and clear. Two more of his men were gone.

“My God,” Athos gasped aloud. He turned around to face away from his friends while gazing intently up the hill. Anger swelled in his heart at the cowards hidden in the trees above them. “Senseless, stupid… none of these deaths should have happened!” he growled, literally shaking with anger.

Instantly, his three friends were by his side to offer their quiet support with gentle squeezes to the arm and shoulder. No words were spoken or were necessary as they stood with Athos, silently grieving for the lost men under his command.

Athos clenched his fists as he turned back around to the men mingling near the canal. “If you’re not being tended to for wounds, I want you all to get back to your positions,” the captain ordered the men. “Stay alert and ready for attack—on _all_ sides—we have to be ready for them, no matter where they appear. The enemy is going to rebound and attack again, you can count on it. Be ready!”

“Captain, how long are we going to be trapped under here?” young Musketeer Guilbeaux asked the captain as he turned to leave.

Athos looked at the young Musketeer and smiled tenderly at the young man who was so eager to be a part of their elite band of brothers. Guilbeaux had come to the garrison, not much older than when d’Artagnan made his bold appearance, eager and enthusiastic to join. His own father was a Musketeer, and now the boy was ready to follow in his father’s footsteps. Looking at the young man, the captain would not tell Guilbeaux that he didn’t have the answers but, for the sake of morale, he had to appear that he did.

“Captain?” Guilbeaux repeated his question. “Captain, how long?”

“Just until Lieutenant General de Créquy and his army come to help us,” Athos forced a smile. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. Stay alert and keep your head down, son,” the captain turned on his heel and rushed to the next archway.

The three brothers traded worried glances and swallowed hard. They knew Athos well enough to recognize his lie to the young man, just to keep him from worrying. They knew no one coming and the captain had no idea how they were going to get out of this siege alive.

“I’m going to go talk to him,” d’Artagnan determined but was stopped with a strong hand to his arm.

“No, pup, leave ‘im be,” Porthos shook his head. “He needs time alone to think.”

“Why don’t you two help cut strips of cloth for the wounded, huh?” Aramis suggested, coming up with the chore to keep his friends busy and their minds distracted. They each set out tending to the wounded but still their minds were preoccupied, despite the attempt to keep them busy. The men couldn’t help but worry for their captain; he was visibly anxious, agonizing over how he would get his men out of this situation alive.

**Later:**

The men were beginning to relax, lapsing into easy conversation as the skies unexpectedly opened in a fiery storm. Cannonballs and grapeshot rained down, as if Pandora’s box was opened to release its affliction on the Musketeers. Another crash rocked the bridge, sending chunks of stone raining down on the men seeking refuge underneath. The screams and cries were drowned out by the thunderous roar of cannon fire and the resulting explosions. 

The Musketeers were helpless to do anything but lay low, cover their heads and wait out the storm. Finally, after a time of being bombarded, the Musketeers raised up to oversee the damage wrought by the enemy. Piles of rubble lay inside the archways, mostly on the outer edges where the piers were beginning to crumble. Thick chunks of the parapet had fallen to join atop of the growing mountains of rubble from the top of the bridge.

“Everyone stay where you are!” Athos commanded, his voice echoing in the archway. “Aramis, you’re with me.”

“Yes sir,” Aramis followed behind the captain who started checking the men for wounds. They stopped by a position closest to the outer edges of the archway that now lay covered in debris. Two men were bleeding from several wounds. The first man moaned as Athos and Aramis pulled away the debris to reveal a head wound and facial abrasions, but it was the stillness of the second man that caused alarm.

They set out to remove large chunks of the bridge and stone until they finally uncovered the unmoving man. Aramis examined the Musketeer to find a gaping head wound with the skull caved inward, filled with pieces of dust and debris. He already knew the answer, but the medic turned the man over to check for a pulse anyway. He sadly shook his head as a report to the waiting captain, “I’m sorry.”

“Damn… damn,” Athos muttered as he hung his head. He reached to gently clean the dust from the Musketeer’s face. “I’m sorry, Chaussee.”

Crawling to the next archway, Athos stopped in his tracks at the debris field that was once a safe haven for his men. His breath caught in his throat as he looked at the pile of stones on top of his motionless men. Frantically, Aramis and Athos pulled away the stones and cleared the earthen debris from the wounded men, dreading what they would find.

“It’s St. Vincent,” Aramis cursed under his breath as he uncovered the first man. He checked the man’s pulse and shook his head, “he’s gone. There’s one more under here,” the medic pointed out as he pulled away more of the heavy stones.

Athos gasped as he recognized the young man facing upward, his eyes open but unseeing. “Oh God, no!” A strangled sob caught in the captain’s throat as he bent over the body and began pounding the pile of stones with his fist.

“Athos! Stop,” the medic stilled the pounding fist. “Stop, it’s not your…” Aramis stopped short. _I’m just uttering meaningless words with meaningless comfort… how many more of our boys have to die under here?_

“It’s Guilbeaux,” Athos choked. “I had just… I had just talked to him. I told him to keep his head down…” the captain pounded his knee as tears formed and spilled from his eyes. “His father was a Musketeer… the boy just wanted to make his papa proud.”

“His papa _was_ proud,” Aramis whispered. “I knew Monsieur Guilbeaux—a father couldn’t be more proud of his boy,” the medic wiped away a tear rolling down his cheek.

“He was just a boy… I was responsible for him.” Athos sat motionless for a moment then rocked back on his haunches, ready to stand.

Aramis stopped him, “this is _not_ your fault, Athos. If you want to blame someone, blame them! _They_ are the ones responsible for these deaths and all of this damned destruction, Athos, _not_ you! This is not your fault!” he shouted.

Athos stood and walked dejectedly past the remaining me in the archway to outside of the bridge toward the river.

“Athos!” Aramis scrambled after his friend. “Athos, what the hell…?” he paused to yell for Porthos and d’Artagnan but they were already running to join the medic. “Athos…”

Porthos ran after the captain, catching up to him on the bank of the river. “Athos! Where in the bloody hell do you think you are goin’, eh?” The large Musketeer shook Athos by the shoulders, “are you tryin’ to get yourself killed, man?”

“There’s no place to go from here but the river, Athos,” Aramis held onto Athos with a vice-like grip as he helped pulled the captain back to the safety of the bridge.

“We’ve _got_ to do something, dammit!” d’Artagnan snapped, exasperated. “We need to find another way to get help—there _has_ to be another way!”

“If we could just float down the river…” Athos whispered, studying the flow downstream.

“There must be _some_ way…” Aramis paused as he looked at the flowing river, the gentle ripples of current glistened with the setting sun. “Mother Mary of God… the river!”

“Sorry?” d’Artagnan asked in confusion.

“The river!” Aramis repeated with elation. “We wait until dark then we slip into the river and float downstream like deadwood until we’re safely out of the region.”

“Who, _all_ of us?” Porthos asked with disbelief. “Even the wounded?”

“No, not the wounded,” Aramis answered with a shake of his head. “Most of the wounded would never make it—but two of us can! Then we can make it to Castelnaudary,” he nodded.

“You have no horses,” Athos reminded.

“We can hunt some down,” Aramis countered. “There are a dozen farms around this area, along the river, I’m sure we could round up two.”

“And then what?” Porthos asked.

“And then we ride to Castelnaudary to recruit Lieutenant General de Créquy and his army to help us; the army is large enough to defeat the Spaniards on the hill… we can finally end this siege!” Aramis whispered with excitement.

“It’s too dangerous, Aramis,” Athos shook his head disapprovingly. “I’ve already lost two pairs of men going out on these doomed missions.”

“Yes, but they didn’t go downriver!” Aramis corrected. “Athos, I want to volunteer for this—I want to do this for the men… for you. For us!”

“I want to go also,” d’Artagnan added in a determined tone.

“Me too,” Porthos chimed.

“Porthos, you can’t swim, remember?” Aramis reminded his friend, raising his eyebrows at the suggestion.

“You never liked being in water either,” d’Artagnan clapped his friend on the shoulder.

“You’re right,” Porthos huffed. “I’ll stay here with Athos.”

“Hold on a minute,” Athos raised a hand in protest. “I didn’t say _anybody_ was going on this mission—it’s suicide!”

“It’s suicide if we stay here and do nothing!” Aramis shouted as a projectile exploded nearby. “The only difference is that if we stay here it’s a slow strangulation, killing us one by one until we all are dead.”

“This may be our last chance to go get help while there’s still _some_ of us alive! Athos, if we wait much longer, it’ll be too late.” D’Artagnan grasped Athos’s arm and squeezed, “You have to let us try, Athos.”

“Death by suicide or slow strangulation,” Athos muttered. “Our ideas are growing more desperate by the day. I don’t like it… but I don’t see that we have any other choice.”

“If we don’t try, Athos,” Aramis motioned toward the bridge, “we die of slow strangulation … and we’re as good as dead.”

“Alright,” Athos nodded. “Aramis and d’Artagnan, you will leave tonight, under the cover of darkness.” The captain took hold of his brother’s arms and held on with a steely grip, “but know this, if you fail, we are _all_ dead... and the bridge will be our grave.”


	5. Alexandre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The captain paused, turning one last time to look at the river. “Please make it safely to Castelnaudary, my brothers,” he whispered softly. “You are my last… our only hope.”

The chilly night sky was cloud covered, concealing the dim sliver of moonlight. The darkness was nearly pitch black, making it difficult for the group of three Musketeers to quietly make their way to the river, having to feel where they were going with their hands in front of them as they crawled. Just getting to the river was a painstakingly slow process, but Athos and his two volunteers made it to the bank of the cold, flowing water.

“Please be safe, my brothers,” Athos quietly whispered. “If anything happens to you two, I will never forgive myself.”

“We’re going to make it, Athos,” Aramis whispered reassuringly with a squeeze to his arm. 

“You stay alive, do you hear me?” Athos ordered his friends, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“We’re going to make it,” d’Artagnan repeated Aramis’ words. “But you _must_ survive too, Athos!”

“Go… be careful,” Athos clapped them each on the shoulder. “Please be careful and come back to us… alive!”

“We _will_ return, brother, but you had better be…” Aramis paused as his voice cracked. “Just stay alive, my brother,” Aramis clasped Athos’ shoulder tightly.

Athos scoot away some toward the pier but stayed close enough to watch as Aramis and d’Artagnan slipped into the frigid water. 

Aramis and d’Artagnan bit down on their lip, clenching their jaws tightly to suppress the gasps of shock as their bodies slipped deeper into the chilly water. They both breathed in deeply through their noses, while keeping their mouths tightly shut to suppress any noise from slipping out. 

Aramis lay back and allowed his body to float gently on the surface of the water. He let out a long breath as he stared up at the cloud covered sky until, at last, he let himself be carried away by the current. D’Artagnan soon followed and, mirroring the actions of the medic, he allowed his slender frame to be swept away by the water. The Gascon watched Athos until he could no longer see him and sadly wondered if he would ever see his captain and his friends again.

Athos watched his men—his brothers—until they disappeared into the darkness and wondered if he would ever see his friends alive again. With a long sigh, the captain turned back toward the bridge, knowing another night of fighting to survive lay ahead. “God, if you can hear me, help me and the men make it through one more night.”

The captain paused, turning one last time to look at the river. “Please make it safely to Castelnaudary, my brothers,” he whispered softly. “You are my last… our only hope.”

**L’Aude River:**

Aramis and d’Artagnan floated down the Aude River, slowly drifting through the L-shaped bend to the gently sweeping curve. Aramis decided they best get out of the water before they drift too far and before they freeze to death. He spotted a farm with dim candlelight burning inside a room. “Let’s s-stop h-here,” he shivered.

The clouds overhead had cleared, giving them a soft glowing light to the surrounding dark landscape. Their frosty breath shimmered like silvery dust in the crisp, night air. Aramis tried to right himself in the water by grabbing hold of a large rock in the middle of the river but his frozen hands could just barely hang on. 

D’Artagnan tried grabbing hold of some reeds along the bank but his frozen fingers would not curl around the reed to hang on. He drifted further downstream until he spotted Aramis bobbing on the water in the middle of the river, hanging on for dear life to a rock as a strong anchor.

“G-grab m-m-my l-legs, d-d’Artagnan,” Aramis stuttered as his teeth chattered uncontrollably. 

The Gascon grabbed the medic’s legs and held on with his arms, clenching tightly with his elbows to compensate for his frozen fingers. D’Artagnan fought to stay above the water as his body shook hysterically from the cold.

“T-tr-try to p-put y-your f-feet d-d-down, d’Artagnan,” Aramis stammered. “It’s n-not th-that d-deep.”

“I c-can’t f-f-feel my f-feet or m-my legs… or my h-hands,” d’Artagnan complained.

“I kn-know, j-just p-put your l-legs d-down,” he ordered sternly.

The Gascon did as he was told, forcing his legs to cooperate and hold his body upright as he tried to stand in the middle of the river. He stood up on wobbly legs, forcing one foot in front of the other, as he made his way through the waist-deep water to the shore. 

Aramis forced his legs to hold up his weight, planting his feet squarely on the muddy riverbed, to follow right behind d’Artagnan as he waded to the bank. The medic fell onto the bank beside d’Artagnan where they both pulled themselves through the mud until they were free of the icy water.

The Musketeers were shaking uncontrollably from the cold, neither having the strength just yet to move. “We m-m-must g-get up-p or we’ll fr-freeze to d-death out h-here,” Aramis shivered. “Re-remember Ath-Athos is c-counting on us t-to m-make it.”

“I c-can’t m-move, Ar-Aramissss,” d’Artagnan slurred.

“I kn-know y-you’re c-cold but w-we ha-have to k-keep m-moving.”

The men looked at each other and let out a slight huff of amusement at their soggy appearance—their blue lips against pale skin dotted with cold droplets of water dripping from their wet hair and clothes. “Aren’t w-we a p-pair,” Aramis snickered.

Helping each other off the bank, the shaking men huddled together and stumbled toward the farm house. They looked around to notice several horses grazing nearby, some still saddled. The Musketeers stopped in their tracks as the horses began walking toward them.

“Aramis, th-these are Musk-Musketeer h-horses,” d’Artagnan said, looking around at the approaching animals. “L-look, ‘Mis, l-look! Th-there’s Ath-Athos’ horse!” 

The men stood in wonder as the white horse, still wearing the blue saddle blanket and saddle distinguishing her as belonging to a Musketeer, sauntered over to them and nudged them familiarly. “Well, I- I’ll b-be damned,” Aramis huffed incredulously. “Hello, Kim.”

“H-how d-did so m-many of our h-horses end up h-here?” d’Artagnan asked as more horses walked to them.

“I d-don’t kn-know, but let’s just t-take two and g-go,” Aramis suggested.

“Not so fast,” said a man holding a lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. “Who are you? State your business or I will shoot!”

“W-we’re of th-the King’s M-musketeers,” Aramis forced through chattering teeth. “Some of th-these are our h-horses. That one, th-the wh-white one, is our c-captain’s horse.”

“I’ve been finding these horses scattered around for two days now,” said the older man. “Some have just wandered here on their own; others I’ve rounded up and brought here for safe keeping, until I knew what to do with them.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan nodded, exchanging glances quietly.

“Let’s get you boys inside and into some dry clothes,” the man offered after seeing their Musketeer pauldrons. “Then you can tell me all about what happened and why I’ve been collecting Musketeer horses for the last two days.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan followed behind the man but found it increasingly difficult to walk. Their legs and feet were so numb they no longer had any feeling in them; only with sheer determination did they manage to keep putting one laden foot in front of the other.

Once inside, the man put more logs on the fire to get it heated up, then put a pot of soup over the fire to warm it. “I have two boys,” the man started, “they’re fightin’ against the Spaniards for King and Country. I haven’t heard from either boy in months; I can only pray to the good Lord above that they’re both doing well and still among the living.”

“I pr-pray th-they are d-doing well also.” Aramis tried to smile but his face felt too frozen to move.

“Are you a religious man?” the man looked at Aramis with raised eyebrows, studying him closely. “You sound like a religious man.”

“Y-yes s-sir.”

“My boys are about your size, I’ll go get a change of clothes for each of you and some towels so you can dry off. You can’t ride anywhere in those wet clothes or you’d freeze to death before you got there,” he called over his shoulder as he left to fetch the clothes.

The man brought back a complete change of clothes, sans boots, for the soaking wet duo, including fresh braies and socks. “These should fit you boys,” the man glanced over d’Artagnan from head to toe, sizing him up. “The pants might be a little short on you, son,” he laughed. “You look taller than both my boys, but at least your clothes will be dry. Can’t say the same for your boots… but I think you’ll do alright, at least, in dry clothes.”

“Th-thank you very m-much for your k-kind-kindness,” d’Artagnan nodded.

“It’s my pleasure,” the stranger answered. “Now, if you’d like to change back in the bedroom, it’s right through there,” he pointed over their shoulders. “I’ll get a hot bowl of soup ready for you so you can eat before takin’ to the road again.”

“Th-thank you, Monsieur…?” Aramis asked politely.

“Please, you boys can call me Alexandre,” the man answered.

“Th-thank you, Alex-alexandre,” d’Artagnan nodded as he followed Aramis into the bedroom to change.

Soon, a roar of laughter boomed from the bedroom as d’Artagnan put on the borrowed pants and found they reached well above ankle level. Aramis bent over at the waist with laughter, unable to control himself at the ridiculous sight. After all that they had been through tonight and the last couple of days, the moment of laughter, even at the Gascon’s expense, felt so good.

It felt so good, in fact, that d’Artagnan wasn’t the least bit offended or put off, but joined in with the laughter, even at himself.

The duo came out with stocking feet to the kitchen and the man stopped short, sizing d’Artagnan up and down once again. “Yeah, thought you might have been a bit taller… but they’re dry.”

“Yes, they’re dry,” d’Artagnan smiled.

“Not stammering anymore now that you got those wet clothes off, I see,” the man observed. “Get some hot food in your bellies and you will feel better inside too.”

“We thank you for your kindness, Alexandre, but we really should be going,” Aramis glanced at d’Artagnan.

“Nonsense,” Alexandre protested. “I insist you eat before you go anywhere—I am quite eager to hear your story.”

“Alexandre, we must ride to Castelnaudary tonight,” d’Artagnan explained. “Our captain and our brother Musketeers are in trouble.”

“I understand boys,” the man nodded. “See, I was a Musketeer too,” he said as he put the bowls on the table. “It’s been over thirty years ago. I got hurt…” his voice trailed. “Eat first, you need the warmth and nourishment before you can ride.”

Aramis suddenly let out a huff of breath as he snapped his fingers, “of course.”

“What?” Alexandre and d’Artagnan asked in unison.

“Alexandre, you remind me of our old cook, Serge,” Aramis smiled as he thought of the kindly, old soldier. “He was a soldier in his day… and also was hurt. Now he works in our kitchen keeping us all fed. We couldn’t get along without him.”

The men quickly ate their hot soup as they explained to Alexandre what happened at the bridge upon their arrival at Carcassonne. They explained how they were trapped under the bridge while getting bombarded with cannon fire while unable to escape, as the death toll climbed. This desperate mission to Castelnaudary was their last hope at getting help.

“I was wondering why I was hearin’ so much cannon fire coming from up the river,” Alexandre nodded. “We’ve had a lot of those damn Spanish bastards crawling around these parts for months now,” he grumbled. “I hope you reach Castelnaudary quickly and get back in time to save your captain and brothers. I wish I could come with you but I’d only slow you boys down,” the former Musketeer frowned. “Let me take you to your horses so you can be on your way.”

Once outside in the pasture, the horses slowly approached the familiar duo of Musketeers. “Hey, look, there’s Zad!” d’Artagnan cried out with glee. “Come here boy,” he whistled to the horse and watched with a large grin as the animal walked toward him.

“Would you like me to get your captain’s horse for you?” Alexandre asked Aramis. “She sure is a beauty.”

“No, not the captain’s horse,” Aramis shook his head. “No one rides the captain’s horse but Athos—but yes, Kim is a beauty. I’m sure you will take good care of her until the captain returns to reclaim her?”

“Of course,” the older man nodded, “I’ll take care of as many as come my way. I’ll just grab that one over there, he’s already saddled.”

“Well, I’ll be damned, that’s Flip!” Aramis exclaimed. “Flip is our brother Porthos’ horse.” The medic stood beside Flip, running his hand down the long muscular neck, petting him softly. “We are deeply indebted to you, Alexandre.”

“You are both very welcome… but, you never told me your names,” he said, frowning.

“I’m sorry, how rude of us,” d’Artagnan blurted. “I am d’Artagnan, and this is Aramis.”

“Well, d’Artagnan and Aramis, may God go with you boys and give you speed and success,” Alexandre said as he shook their hands. “I will pray for the safety of your captain and his company of men also.”

“Thank you, Alexandre,” the Musketeers bowed forward in the saddle. Aramis lifted his hat in respectful salute, “we will return for our clothes and the other horses when we are able.”

The Musketeers turned and dug in their heels, prompting the horses to make haste—enough time had been lost this night. After some distance, the boys slowed their horses to avoid overtiring, but they would have to smartly pace the animals to make good time. The road to Castelnaudary was dark so they were grateful for the clouds having rolled away to give them better lighting.

The men rode along on the darkened path with their eyes always scanning the sides of the road and the nearby terrain for possible attackers or anyone else suspicious. It appeared they were alone on the road to Castelnaudary, though they kept their eyes and ears open for anyone not welcome, nonetheless.

“What are the chances that we’d crawl up to the farmhouse of a former Musketeer?” d’Artagnan asked aloud, shaking his head at the incredible luck.

“I don’t know but…” Aramis was quiet for a moment. “It was just meant to be, d’Artagnan. The pieces all fell into place too perfectly tonight for it to be anything but God’s hand at work. I’m actually beginning to think we’re going to make it,” he smiled.

“If we hadn’t changed out of those wet clothes…”

“… we never would have made it to Castelnaudary,” Aramis finished grimly. “We would have collapsed from the chill and died somewhere along the road; or we would die from pneumonia in Castelnaudary, quite unable to ever return to Carcassonne.”

“How do you think Athos, Porthos and the men are doing back there?” d’Artagnan asked softly as he glanced over his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” the medic’s brow creased with worry. “I wish… I wish we didn’t have to leave them back there,” Aramis shuddered as a chill tingled down his spine.

“We had no choice, Aramis,” d’Artagnan studied his worried friend. “We’re doing this _for_ them; they won’t make it without the army’s help.”

“I know, d’Art, but I can’t help…” he stopped himself short, deciding it would be best if he didn’t voice his fears.

“You can’t help… what?”

“Nothing,” Aramis clammed up. “Look, there’s Villepinte; we’re over halfway there,” he sped up his horse, not wanting to talk anymore. _I can’t tell d’Artagnan that I have a feeling something terrible is going to happen—that the bridge we left is not what we’re going to find when we return._

D’Artagnan shook his head, taking the hint that his friend was no longer in the mood for conversation. When Aramis wanted to be alone, it was best to leave him be. Besides, he knew the medic was just worried for their friends and brothers left behind, still trapped underneath the bridge. He sped up his horse to catch up to ride just behind the medic.

Now that Aramis alluded to his anxieties, the Gascon began to fear what the captain and his men would be facing tonight. _What if we did make a mistake leaving them behind? What if we get back there to find the bridge destroyed and everyone is dead?_

D’Artagnan wondered if there was anything they could have done differently upon their arrival at Carcassonne when they were attacked at the bridge. Perhaps if they had tried running away instead of dismounting and hiding under the bridge? _No, Musketeers never run away. We stand and fight!_

D’Artagnan sped up his horse, “come on!” The Gascon yelled as he passed Aramis by. “We have to get back to the bridge, hurry up! Let’s go get that army and get the hell back to Athos before it’s too late!”

**Pont Vieux, Carcassonne:**

Athos quietly crawled back to the bridge, going into the second archway where Porthos was waiting.

“‘Roger,’” Athos whispered as he heard alerted movement inside the archway.

“Captain, dammit,” Porthos growled. “I’m gettin’ real tired of not bein’ able to see. I think we’re all getting’ too jumpy—me included.”

“I know,” Athos agreed. “This is getting old, but it should be our last night here.”

“You’re ‘at confident they’re gettin’ through, eh?”

“I won’t entertain the alternative, Porthos,” Athos snapped. He sighed, closing his eyes as he softened his tone. “They _have_ to make it; there is no other option—for them or for us.”

The men sat next to each other in the archway trying to keep warm, passing away the cold night by reminiscing of earlier days in the regiment under Captain Tréville. They stopped whispering when they heard rustling in the grass just outside, across from their pier.

Athos nodded his head as he pulled out his dagger, motioning for Porthos to follow behind him to seek out the intruder. Ahead, in the passing moonlight they could see the silhouette of a man standing in the grass and then turn their way to approach the bridge.

The captain lay flat on the ground, keeping his eye on the intruder until he passed; in a blur of movement, Athos jumped behind the intruder with his dagger ready to slice the throat open.

“Stop, Captain!” the man screamed. “It’s me, it’s Périer, Captain!” he cried. “I’m sorry, but I had to relieve myself… I couldn’t hold it anymore.”

“Dammit, Périer!” Athos let go of his vice-like grip of the Musketeer, allowing him to fall to the ground.

“Bloody hell, Périer!” Porthos growled in a harsh whisper, trying to keep from shouting. “You almost got your damn neck sliced wide open.”

“Did you forget the password?” Athos grabbed the Musketeer by the doublet collar and shook him once. “Damn you, Périer; I could have _killed_ you!”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

The clouds parted and floated slowly away from the quarter moon, giving the small island a soft glow of light. “We best get back under the…” Athos’ words were cut off as he noticed two Spanish soldiers lying in the tall grass near the canal. The captain grabbed Porthos by the arm and motioned with his head in the direction of the soldiers while readying the dagger in his hand.

“Périer, alert the men to possible intruders,” Porthos whispered in the man’s ear. 

Athos motioned to Porthos to follow him, together they quietly crept toward the Spaniards until they saw them coming and tried to get up. Their movements were slow from lying on the cold ground, making them stiff while lacking adequate strength to put up much of a fight.

Porthos and Athos grabbed the men from behind and in one swift motion, sliced open the men’s throats then twisted the daggers for certain lethality. From behind the trees, two more soldiers ran toward them with daggers in hand. Athos turned around to meet them but was pushed aside as Porthos blocked a stabbing lunge by a swift-moving Spaniard, whose blade was aimed at the captain’s neck.

Twisting around behind the attacking soldier, Porthos dug his dagger into the assailant’s neck. The large Musketeer suddenly cried out in pain as the second Spaniard sliced his dagger across his wrist, making Porthos drop his main gauche. 

The second Spaniard turned to plunge his dagger into Porthos’ neck, only to step back with surprise as Athos’ thrown dagger suddenly embedded itself deep into his chest, over his heart. The man stumbled backward and then fell to the ground in a heap. 

Both of the Musketeers stood still in the grass, their eyes wildly searching and scanning for more soldiers. They spotted a pair of soldiers retreating back up the hill then disappearing into the dark, but saw no further movement. Neither of the Musketeers dared to move for some time as they kept their moonlight vigil. As sentries, they guarded the darkened landscape until they felt it was safe to return to their place under the bridge.

“Did they hurt you badly?” Athos asked Porthos, while trying to examine the bloody wrist in the scant moonlight.

“Nah, it’s just a scratch, Athos,” Porthos shrugged it off as they sat back down by the stone wall. “Good thing Périer had to go,” the large Musketeer huffed. “We mighta not seen those snakes comin,’” he snarled.

“Yes, we got lucky, as it turns out,” Athos shivered. The captain leaned his head back against the wall and let out a long breath. “How much longer…” his voice trailed. “I’m so tired… so tired…”

“Athos, lean against me.” Porthos pulled the captain in and wrapped his arm over his shoulder, allowing Athos’ head to rest in the crook of his neck. “You ‘aven’t slept since we’ve been ‘ere; you need some rest before… before we face whatever lies ahead, come morning.”

“I need to keep watch…”

“Rubbish, you’ve kept watch over us long enough, Cap’n.” Porthos rubbed his hand up and down Athos’ arm to warm him. “Go to sleep, Athos,” he whispered as the captain closed his eyes. “It’s my turn… I’ll keep watch tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and d'Artagnan are on their way to Castelnaudary to retrieve the army's help; will they arrive back in Carcassonne in time? Athos is finally getting some rest... but is it only the calm before the storm?
> 
> As always, thank you so much for the kind reviews and kudos. The story will be updated again on Monday; until then, have an awesome weekend everyone!


	6. You Stay Alive!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With one last look back at his men, the captain left the safety of the large tree and disappeared into the hillside. Porthos watched his friend, having no regard to his own safety as he ran up the hill toward danger, but hellbent in stopping the slaughter of his men. Tears filled Porthos’s eyes, “you stay alive too, my captain—my brother. Athos, please… you stay alive!”

At last, Aramis and d’Artagnan arrived at Castelnaudary, weary but on a determined mission to get help for their friends. They announced themselves at the elegant Château de Castelnaudary as King’s Musketeers in desperate need of seeing Lieutenant General de Créquy, who was keeping his temporary headquarters at the castle.

“The general is sleeping,” reported the sentry. “State your business!”

“We are King’s Musketeers,” Aramis announced with irritation. “We are here on official business to see the general—it is a matter of life and death!”

“You must be daft!” said the sentry, observing the men from top to bottom. “You don’t look like Musketeers to me—you look like farmhands.”

D’Artagnan looked at Aramis with irritation and frowned, furrowing his brow as he thought of a reply. The Musketeers had forgotten that they changed clothes at Alexandre’s place and were no longer in uniform. “Excuse me, Sentry, but we took a spill in the Aude and had to change clothes,” he explained impatiently. “I am d’Artagnan and this is Aramis, we are of the King’s Musketeers; Athos de la Fère is our captain…”

Aramis grew increasingly impatient as they stood wasting valuable time at the door and finally interrupted in a clipped tone. “Look, we have arrived from Carcassonne with an emergency involving Minister Tréville, General de Turenne, and our company of Musketeers. Lieutenant General de Créquy said to alert him _immediately_ to enemy presence at Carcassonne,” Aramis explained. “We have an emergency and, well, here we are. Go wake the general… now, dammit!” he ordered with an agitated growl.

“One moment,” the sentry turned to leave.

“Well, that wasn’t exactly honorable speech… for a King’s Musketeer,” d’Artagnan snickered.

“Perhaps, but it was necessary to get his attention,” Aramis said with a scowl. “The sentry is right, though,” Aramis huffed with amusement. “I mean, look at us—we look like two lost farmhands.”

“I feel _odd_ being out of uniform,” d’Artagnan said, pulling at his clothes self-consciously. “What if the general won’t see us?”

Just then, the sentry returned with de Créquy following close behind. The general stopped to confirm the identity of the two men at the door, “Ah yes, Aramis and d’Artagnan,” he warmly greeted. “I understand you did not come here in the middle of the night on a social call, is there an emergency?” de Créquy asked as the sentry allowed the duo inside.

“There is, General,” Aramis reported. “We made it with our company of Musketeers to the Aude River, but we were attacked at the Pont Vieux Bridge and couldn’t get to the fortress. Our captain and the remainder of our company have been under fire and are trapped under the bridge, sir. It appears that the cité of Carcassonne is under siege, no one can get in _or_ out; the Spaniards have the entire area surrounded.”

“I will assemble my troops first thing in the morning,” de Créquy determined with a nod.

“With all due respect, General,” Aramis countered. “If you wait until morning to assemble the troops, by the time we arrive in Carcassonne it will be too late. We need to assemble the troops _now_ and get them moving as soon as possible, sir.” Aramis knew that he might be overstepping his bounds with the general, but he also knew that his captain and friends were fighting to survive another night under siege. Every hour that passed while they were trapped under that bridge was another hour of peril and potential death for their fellow Musketeers. Waiting six more hours to even begin movement toward their rescue might prove to be a fatal mistake; all they would find upon return are bodies buried under rubble.

“General, our captain and our brothers are in serious danger out there,” d’Artagnan pleaded. “They will not be able to hold on much longer… please, they need your help!”

“General, two reconnaissance teams were sent by Captain Athos from the bridge to seek out help—both teams were killed,” Aramis reported angrily. “You said to alert you if there was an emergency; sir, we wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t an emergency!”

“Very well,” de Créquy agreed. “Bercharde, send for Colonel Bélanger,” the general ordered. “Tell him to sound the alarm and assemble the troops—we march to Carcassonne at once!”

**Pont Vieux, Carcassonne:**

Porthos held Athos close, strong arms wrapped around his captain as he tried to keep the shivering man warm while he slept. The large Musketeer thought anxiously about his friends; the worry for their welfare was relentless since they floated away in the river. “I wonder where they’re at right now?” Porthos whispered out loud without thinking. “Hope ‘at cold water doesn’t make ‘em catch their death of…” he winced at the thoughtlessness of his poorly chosen words.

Athos awoke with a start, having eerily heard Porthos’s question. He gasped sharply at the mention of his two friends and ‘death’ in the same sentence. The captain tried not to let his mind dwell on the morbid thoughts, threatening to consume his dreams and his every waking moment, but they were squeezing all hope from his heart. _What if they don’t make it? What if my brothers have already been captured and I get their heads tossed to me while the Spaniards gloat? God, what will I do?_

“I’m sorry, Athos,” Porthos apologized, deeply regretting his words. “‘M sorry… I’m sure they’re fine. You couldn’t get any more determined men to complete such a mission—successfully—than ‘Mis and d’Art. If anyone ca’ make it to Castelnaudary, _they_ can. I know they can,” he added softly.

“Yes, they’ll make it—they _have_ to,” Athos said, trying to convince himself more than anything. “We’re out of options now. There are no more recon missions left to try; this was our last-ditch cry for help…” his voice trailed.

Suddenly, cannon fired in the distance, soon followed by another then another. The explosions of various cannon projectiles rocked the bridge and the surrounding ground, sending deadly fragments of sharp metal and rock scattering over the landscape then splashing into the water.

Porthos and Athos dropped to their stomachs beside the wall, getting as low as possible as they heard the fragments zip by overhead. They covered their heads as solid shot balls blasted against the stone bridge, knocking huge chunks to the ground with a _thump!_

“Damn, when is this ever going to end?” Athos growled, his angry breath kicking up specks of dust from the ground.

The men waited for more explosions but suddenly the early morning went strangely quiet. No one dared to move from their positions as they hugged the ground, fearing that one false move might make them the next casualty.

Athos looked outside to see the eastern sky painted with pastel shades of pink and orange. “Looks like we survived another night in hell,” he said to Porthos, “but what does the new day bring?” The captain looked once again at the colorful sky and let out a weary sigh, _will I ever see another sunrise, or is my last one?_

“Oi, another day in hell,” Porthos grimly answered the captain’s earlier question.

“Porthos, I want you to keep your head down today,” Athos ordered with an ominous tone. “I have a feeling…”

“You feel it too, eh?”

“Lasciate ogne speranze, voi ch’intrate,” Athos whispered to himself, closing his eyes as he sighed.

“Do I want to know what ‘at means?”

“‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’” Athos translated grimly. “It comes from _Inferno,_ by Dante Alighieri.”

“Athos…?”

The captain shook his head, ending the morbid conversation. He crawled away to the remaining Musketeers, checking on their positions and well-being. “I want you men to move back, away from the northern end of the archway,” the men stared, not wanting to move. “Do it now!” Athos repeated his order with a shout.

He crawled to the men located in the first archway. “I want you men to move to the third archway, closest to the river. Go now,” he motioned with his head. “Stay low and don’t bunch up—move!” the men scrambled to quickly obey the agitated captain.

As the men were moving, the hillside cannon opened up, giving fiery life to Athos’ grim premonitions of _Dante’s Inferno,_ on the Pont Vieux. A storm of raining hellfire of solid-shot, grape and canister all converged on the ancient bridge and the fragile men hidden underneath with relentless fury—and with no mercy. 

Explosions thundered and roared around the bridge with massive force. Large chunks of stone rained down as the bridge slowly was chopped apart with each successive hit. The Musketeers tried to take cover from the debris falling down on them but there was little more they could do… they had nowhere else to go. If they moved outside the cover of the bridge, a sharpshooter’s musket would surely pick them off.

Suddenly, there was an enormous roar emanating from the bridge, followed by a cracking rumble that shook the ground beneath their bodies. An instant rush of dust consumed the men, choking the breath from their lungs, as the first archway came crashing down to the ground with a storm of stone and mortar.

“Dammit, that’s it!” Athos growled. “Porthos, take care of the men,” he ordered as he placed a somber hand on his friend’s arm. “You have command of the bridge now,” he said as he started to crawl away.

“Wait one bloody minute,” Porthos grabbed the captain’s arm to stop him. “Jus’ where in the hell do you think you’re goin,’ eh?”

“I have to silence those cannon before we’re all killed!” Athos ducked as another hit from a ball broke away more chunks of the bridge. “If I hadn’t told the men to leave that archway a few minutes ago, they’d all be dead! This bridge is becoming a literal death trap!” Athos yelled over the noise. “I am not going to stay put and watch as my men get slaughtered and then buried in a grave of stone.”

“Captain, you can’t go out there,” Porthos hissed. “You’ll be killed the minute you step outside this bridge, you know ‘at!”

“I know where the cannon placements are,” Athos shouted over the constant thunder of noise. “I’ve been watching the cannon as they fire at night; and I watched exactly where the soldiers retreated to the other day…”

“Athos, this is suicide, dammit!” Porthos yelled at the captain frantically. “You can’t go out there!”

“If I don’t take out those cannon, Porthos, they’re going to destroy this bridge _and_ all that’s left of this company of men.” Athos snatched his arm from Porthos’ vice-like grip. “I will not sit here and watch you die.”

“Let me go wit’ you ,” Porthos begged. “I can help you…”

“No, you stay here and take care of the men,” Athos charged. “They’re your responsibility now.”

“The hell they are!” Porthos growled in protest. _“You_ are the captain, Athos! You are _their_ captain,” he said, ducking as a piece of stone flew by. “If you go out there and get killed…”

“If I _don’t_ go out there, we’re _all_ going to be killed,” Athos interrupted. “At least if I take the cannon out _some_ of you stand a chance of getting out of here alive!”

“And what about you, Athos? What you are about to do is suicide, Captain!” Porthos shouted in anger at the desperation of his captain’s plan. “I am not going to let you just give up your life in place of ours,” his voice cracked. “I’m not gonna do it, Athos!” he grabbed his arm again.

“Staying here and doing _nothing_ is suicide, Porthos! I will not stay here and let you die. I will not let my men be slaughtered,” Athos’ voice softened in the lull. “This is something I have to do, my friend. Let me go, Porthos,” he whispered.

“Athos please,” he pleaded, but knew he was fighting a losing battle of will. Porthos knew there would be no changing of Athos’ mind. “Please be careful,” he squeezed his friend’s arm… and then let go. “You come back to us, Athos, do you hear me? You come back to us.”

Athos clasped his hand on Porthos’ shoulder and squeezed, his throat constricting with emotion as his eyes watered. “You stay alive, my friend,” the captain swallowed a sob. “All of you… please stay alive.”

The captain turned and crawled to the edge of the archway, taking cover behind a pile of stone rubble. Athos eyed the trees on the hill, mentally mapping out his route, as he prepared to spring into action once the cannonading lulled.

“Captain, where are you going, sir?” yelled a Musketeer near the rubble.

“To do what I must,” answered the captain. “Keep your head down, Dielle.”

Captain Athos jumped up and ran to the first set of trees where he stopped to wait for the next round of firing to begin. As Athos waited, he gazed sadly at Porthos who was watching him anxiously. Their eyes locked and the captain gave a reassuring nod to his brother—a silent exchange of consolation and hope. 

With one last look back at his men, the captain left the safety of the large tree and disappeared into the hillside. Porthos watched his friend, having no regard to his own safety as he ran up the hill toward danger, but hellbent in stopping the slaughter of his men. Tears filled Porthos’ eyes, “you stay alive too, my captain—my brother. Athos, please… you stay alive!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante’s Inferno:  
> Durante (Dante) Alighieri (1265–1321), was a major Italian poet of the late Middle Ages. His poem, _Divine Comedy,_ is widely considered the greatest literary work composed in the Italian language and is a masterpiece of world literature. _Inferno_ is the first part, with _Pergatoria_ and _Paradiso_ completing the trilogy, in a telling of the journey of Dante through Hell, guided by the Roman poet Virgil. In the poem, Hell is depicted as nine circles of suffering located within the Earth; it represents the journey of the soul toward God, with _Inferno_ describing the recognition and rejection of sin.


	7. Gallant Captain Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers were anxious, looking back as if to reassure themselves an army was really behind them as they moved toward their besieged captain and brothers. Both men feared what they might find upon their return to the bridge, though they kept their fears to themselves as if voicing those fears would make it more _real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday's chapter was very short but today's is just the opposite, with it being a little long-hope you don't mind! Thanks for reading!

Aramis and d’Artagnan rode ahead of Lieutenant General de Créquy and his army of three thousand troops as they marched on the dark road toward Carcassonne, having only a quarter moon to light the way.

The Musketeers were anxious, looking back as if to reassure themselves an army was really behind them as they moved toward their besieged captain and brothers. Both men feared what they might find upon their return to the bridge, though they kept their fears to themselves as if voicing those fears would make it more _real._

 _Are my friends still alive? Athos, Porthos, and the men; did they survive while we were gone, or will we find them…_ Aramis sighed heavily as he shook the morbid thoughts from his mind. _Try to think positive._ “Easier said than done,” he said to himself.

“I’m sorry?” d’Artagnan questioned.

Aramis said nothing, but shook his head with frustration. “Dammit, we’re moving too slow!” he growled. He removed his soft-grey hat to run a trembling hand through his wily curls before slamming the hat back down on his head.

“I’m worried about them too, Aramis,” d’Artagnan attempted to comfort his agitated friend. “Worry doesn’t do them or yourself any good,” the Gascon added with a forced smile. In all honesty, he was every bit as worried for his brothers as Aramis; his stomach knotted in fear the closer they traveled to Carcassonne. _If something has happened to them… God please, let them be alive!_

There was no further conversation between the Musketeers as they each retreated to a dark, macabre place within their own anxious mind. The men were so worried over what they would find upon return to the bridge it was making them physically ill. What would they do if the bridge was destroyed and everyone was dead? Would their dangerous mission down the river have been for nothing?

The morning sun had risen hours ago, giving light to their march toward Carcassonne. If the Musketeers had given way to irrational thinking, they would have ridden ahead of the army to rejoin their brothers when they first set out.

Had they done that, however, they risked adding two more lives to the list of casualties under the bridge. Aramis and d’Artagnan would have been powerless to do anything more than wait beside their brothers for impending death… but they would have been _with_ their brothers.

As the Musketeers and the body of troops neared Carcassonne, the sound of constant cannonading in the distance echoed like thunder over the rolling hills.

“Oh God, no!” Aramis immediately kicked his horse into a run. Lieutenant General de Créquy sent a soldier to catch up to the medic and order him to stop at once and return to formation, as per the general.

“That is my captain and my brother Musketeers under fire up there!” Aramis yelled to the soldier as he turned the horse around to protest the general’s orders. 

“If you two ride up there alone and without back-up, you will be targeted, shot and killed.” de Créquy reasoned logically. “What advantage will you bring to your company of Musketeers if you are shot dead on sight, simply due to your impatience?”

Aramis closed his eyes and nodded quietly. He knew the general was right, but as more explosions echoed over the hills, the more his heart sank with despair. His anxious mind filled with dreadful thoughts—adding to the fear they would arrive at the bridge too late.

**Pont Vieux, Carcassonne:**

Athos ran to the tree line, ducking behind the large tree trunks to keep hidden from the enemy troops above. The path he took up the hill was carefully planned with each stop giving the captain time to target his next tree until he safely reached the final position. Arriving at his final position, he observed a Spanish cannon crew of five, manning a large culverin. “Damn, a culebrina piece.” _No wonder the cannonading was doing so much damage,_ Athos thought.

The captain was armed with two pistols and extra ammunition, plus his sword and main gauche, but attacking them alone would require precise skill to eliminate the crew without harm done to himself. Athos breathed deeply as he stayed well hidden behind a tree and the low bushes, crouching low.

Athos studied the Spaniard’s actions, movements, and habits each time they fired the gun. He unclipped his pistols from his weapons belt, loaded and readied them, then laid them on the ground beside him. Next, he quietly unsheathed his dagger and sword and placed the weapons beside his pistols on the ground. The captain waited until the Spaniard readied to fire the culebrina before pulling the trigger on his pistol, hitting one cannoneer in the back.

The captain immediately fired his second pistol, hitting a second crew member in the chest as he turned toward the trees. Athos then threw his dagger with lightning speed, hitting the third man square in the chest and dropping him to the ground. Two Spaniards remained, with neither having a weapon. 

Athos quickly lunged at one soldier, twisting on the ball of his foot as he thrust his sword into the man’s belly. The fifth man ran up the hill in a fright just as the fourth man dropped to the ground dead. “Dammit!” the captain panted as he wiped a slick of sweat from his face, retrieving his main gauche from the dead Spaniard and wiping his sword clean. 

The captain threw the rammer of the cannon down the hill, followed by the sponge, as he then proceeded to spike the cannon to render it disabled. Satisfied with his first accomplishment, Athos readied to move on to the next cannon placement further up the hill.

The captain ran to the next copse of trees, where he observed a second cannon crew, consisting of just four men manning the smaller, more accurate demi-culverin. _Well, a media culebrina—these Spaniards are good. We must have interrupted their plans to destroy the fortress wall when we arrived at the bridge._ Athos reloaded both of his pistols and readied his main gauche and sword as he waited to attack.

Again, he waited until the cannoneer lit the wick as he timed the firing of the gun with the firing of his pistol. He fired his second pistol immediately after the first, dropping the second crewmember to the ground with a ball to his chest. He then threw his dagger, hitting a surprised third soldier in the neck. With incredible speed, Athos emerged from the trees with his sword pointed ahead and running the weapon through the fourth soldier before he could turn and run away.

Repeating his actions, Athos disabled the cannon then tossed away the rammer and sponge down the hill before heading further up to attack a third crew. The culebrina was manned with four crew members and an officer armed with a pistol and sword on his belt.

Athos knew the officer must be his first target as he posed the greatest threat. The man closest to the officer would have to be next, before he had a chance to reach for the officer’s pistol. Athos waited for the cannon to fire and then fired his pistol, hitting the officer in the head.

He immediately fired his extra pistol as the second man reached for the officer’s weapon, hitting the soldier square in the back. He thrust his dagger into the chest of the third man but as Athos reached for his sword, the fourth man ran up the hill and disappeared. The Musketeer retrieved his dagger and sheathed his sword before disabling the cannon, tossing away the rammer.

Athos walked further up the hill, quickly ducking down low as he spotted another gun crew placement just in front of him. Again, he timed his attack to the moment they fired the cannon, he fired his pistol, hitting he soldier in the chest; he followed with the extra pistol to kill the second soldier before he had time to react. The captain threw his dagger at the third crew member, dropping him as the fourth member disappeared behind a tree.

The captain approached the cannon nest with his sword ready, having just retrieved his dagger, when he felt a sudden burning pain jolt through his lower back. Strangely enough, he felt the pain in his back before he even heard the sound of the pistol firing from somewhere behind and below him on the hill.

The Musketeer gasped as the lead ball impacted his body and threw him forward to his knees, forcing the weapons from his hands. He quickly rolled behind a tree, out of the line of fire as he spotted a cannon crew just above him. Athos realized too late that his main gauche and sword were still lying on the ground near where he had been shot, leaving him completely unarmed. 

“Damn,” the captain cursed as he noticed a Spaniard approaching with his pistol drawn. His back burned as though on fire, but Athos pushed the pain aside to scramble down the hill in attempt to evade the soldiers. He soon found himself at a disabled cannon placement where he stopped to search the dead soldiers for a weapon. Out of the corner of his eye, the captain saw a glint of metal reflecting the sun and then a bright flash of light.

There was a deafening explosion followed by the sensation that he was flying, as pieces of jagged metal shards pierced his body. The hard impact when he landed forced the air from his lungs as he then tumbled down the hill, no longer able to discern ground from sky. Pain exploded as his body impacted a tree, stopping his plummet down the hill. The agony burning through his body dissipated as his awareness faded into darkness.

*****

As the two Musketeers and the following army crested a hill, they saw in the distance rising plumes of white smoke coming from near the river. The cannonading was relentless, with a barrage of explosions intermixed with small arms fire.

The army was close enough now that the Musketeers no longer cared if they separated from the soldiers but rode ahead on their own. Their brother Musketeers were in imminent danger and they had no intention of riding to their rescue at a casual pace.

Aramis and d’Artagnan ran their horses to the riverside and dismounted but the sight before them stopped them cold in their tracks. All three arches of the bridge, which had once spanned the grassy island, were now gone—destroyed by the cannonading. 

Lieutenant General de Créquy yelled to his second-in-command, Colonel Bélanger, to sound the order for _quick march!_ to speed up the arrival of his army. Once they were closer, the general issued the order _double march!_ to run his troops to the bridge and finally into the melee of battle on the hillside.

Before the soldiers arrived, the Musketeers crossed the river and took cover from the shelling behind the piers, now only remnants of the stone columns that had once stood proud under the bridge for hundreds of years. The broken columns jutted from the ground like tree stumps of jagged stone, all that remained of the fine craftsmanship so cruelly torn apart by a ruthless enemy. 

Mountains of stone debris lay about on the grassy terrain like ant hills in the desert. The destruction was mind boggling and the sight literally took their breath away.

“Mother of God!” Aramis gasped at the obliteration of the bridge that had served as their safe haven for days. The remains of the three arches were now mounds of stone, piled high in a sickening disarray of utter destruction. As the men looked across the rubble, they realized there were no Musketeers visible; they realized their brothers were all underneath the wreckage. 

The two Musketeers ran together to the position where they had once huddled with their brothers and began to frantically dig. Aramis knocked away the stones, not bothering to pick them up but simply tossing them aside with a flick of his wrists. The Gascon countered by removing the large stones and throwing them behind him into the grass.

“Where are they?” Aramis yelled as he got further down into the pile of stones but had yet to uncover anyone.

“Keep digging!” d’Artagnan screamed over the explosion of a canister landing on the bridge spanning the river. “Dammit, haven’t our soldiers gotten up there yet?”

Lieutenant General de Créquy arrived across the river with his army splashing behind him, causing a stunning scene as the soldiers flooded across the river and into the trees on the little island for cover. 

“Colonel Bélanger, take two battalions up the hill to the right; I will take the other two battalions up the hill to the left,” de Créquy ordered. “Go now!”

It wasn’t long before the cannonading slowed as thousands of French soldiers overtook the Spaniards on the hill. The thunderous bombardments gave way to sporadic musket and small arms fire.

Meanwhile, the Musketeers continued to dig with the help of several French soldiers, all were creating multiple new stony mountains as they threw aside the debris covering the hidden men.

At last, a leg was found and then parts of the torso of a Musketeer. The rocks were carefully removed to reveal two more Musketeers, one very large and covered in a thick layer of debris and dust.

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan and Aramis cried in unison as they uncovered their friend, removing the remaining stones until they could roll the unmoving man over onto his back. 

The two men simultaneously drew in sharp breaths at the bloodied sight of Porthos’ face covered in a mix of dust and blood. A deep gash on the top of the dark head flowed with blood, while a smaller gash on the forehead and a gash to the back of his head bled more slowly.

“Porthos?” Aramis cried as he reached with his fingers to the large man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He closed his eyes in relief as the medic felt a steady, but weak pulse. The medic gingerly felt over the torso of his friend, checking for broken bones or any sign of foreign impalement. 

Aramis checked the head wounds by tenderly feeling along the scalp for indentations in the skull bones. “Oh God,” Aramis closed his eyes as he ran his fingers along a soft area above Porthos’ ear.

“What is it, Aramis?” d’Artagnan asked anxiously as he observed the alarmed behavior of the medic.

“It’s possible that Porthos has a skull fracture,” Aramis whispered. “I’m not a doctor, when we get him moved inside the fortress a physician can determine whether or not there is a fracture.” The medic appeased d’Artagnan’s question in such a way without worrying the Gascon, but Aramis knew Porthos had a skull fracture without a physician’s official prognosis.

“How is he?” d’Artagan’s worry grew as he watched the medic frown while feeling some ribs give way underneath his fingers. “What’s wrong now?”

“He’s got a few broken ribs, and it feels like his shoulder is dislocated… ah, feels like his right arm is broken too. Dammit to hell!” Aramis threw a rock aside in anger, which then bounced off the pier stump.

“It looks like the bridge fell right on top of him… well, all of them,” the Gascon corrected as he looked at the frightening debris field.

“It appears he tried to shield the other men in his huddle with his own body,” Aramis whispered. “Isn’t that just like Porthos…?” his voice trailed as he was overcome with a wave of emotion. He wiped a tear slipping from his eye with the shirtsleeve, smearing the dust over his cheek.

“Aramis, where is Athos?” D’Artagnan frantically scanned the debris field but saw no sign of the captain.

The boys let a soldier now tending to Porthos continue taking care of their friend as they ran to the next debris pile and started digging. 

Together, they tossed away stone after stone, frantically throwing the rocks to the side in a haphazard manner. They dug through the stones until d’Artagnan suddenly stopped Aramis, grabbing at the medic’s hands with wide eyes.

“Aramis, my God, look at your hands!” the Gascon exclaimed with alarm.

The medic held up his hands, noticing for the first time that his fingers were cut and bleeding, torn from the frantic digging. “Well, I have news for you, mon ami, your hands are in the same bloody condition,” the medic motioned to the Gascon’s hands. “Damn them… damn those Spanish bastards for what they did here!” Aramis spat angrily.

“We have a leg!” D’Artagnan reenergized the desperate search, despite their bloodied hands. 

The Musketeers and French soldiers alike tossed the stones aside with impressive speed, urgently trying to uncover the fragile bodies trapped underneath the remains of the bridge.

“It’s not Athos,” Aramis shook his head, disappointed. The medic was grateful to have found more of his fellow Musketeers, but he couldn’t hide his disappointment that the newly uncovered men did not include the captain. He recognized Mercier, then Presque underneath him, and a third man, Dielle.

“Dielle, where is the captain?” d’Artagnan asked the only Musketeer still conscious. The wounded man blinked as he wiped dust from his eyes; he tried to focus but was having difficulty. “Dielle,” the Gascon repeated, “where is the captain?”

“Where is Athos?” Aramis shouted close to Dielle’s ear, thinking the man might be having trouble hearing. 

Dielle shook his head, but said nothing.

“God, Athos is not here!” d’Artagnan shouted with emotion. Once again, he looked around the debris field but all of the piles had been dug through and all of the men uncovered.

“Dielle, where is Athos?” Aramis asked again, growing more agitated at the situation Dielle seemed oblivious to.

“Aramis…?”

“Yes, Dielle, it’s me,” answered the medic with relief. “Do you know where Athos is?”

“The captain… he went… the captain went up the hill,” the man reported sluggishly. “The captain said… that he…” his voice trailed.

“The captain said what?” Aramis gently shook the Musketeer. “Dielle, what did the captain do, where did he go?”

“I heard him tell Porthos that he had to… shut down the cannon before they killed us all.”

“Oh my God,” d’Artagnan gasped. “No!”

“Madre de Dios!” Aramis uttered under his breath as he looked up the hill, horrified. “Which way did he go, which way up the hill, Dielle?”

“He saved us, Aramis,” Dielle rasped as his voice choked with tears. “The captain saved us…” his voice trailed as he closed his eyes.

“No,” d’Artagnan shook the man awake, determined to get answers before the man passed out. “Which way did the captain go?”

“He went that way,” the Musketeer pointed to the trees where Athos had disappeared just hours ago.

Aramis and d’Artagnan followed the direction which Dielle had pointed to and ran up the hill, using common sense to lead them where the Spaniards might have placed their cannon in the most advantageous of places.

“The captain could be anywhere up here!” d’Artagnan cried frantically as he searched, scanning the hillside as he ran.

“We need to get away from the trees,” Aramis called out. “Look for where they would place their largest cannon—that’s where Athos would go.”

They continued running further up the hill when Aramis saw something that caught his eye. “Merde!” Aramis cursed as he approached the objects, realizing what they were. “D’Artagnan!” the medic yelled for his young friend.

The Gascon came running at the urgency in the medic’s voice expecting that he had found the captain. “What is it?”

“Look, I just found Athos’ sword and main gauche,” Aramis pointed out the objects before picking them up and tucking them into his weapon’s belt. “Athos was here—he’s got to be close by.” Suddenly a thought came to mind, making the medic’s heart skip a beat, _Something is very wrong here; he would never leave his weapons behind._

“Bloody hell, ‘Mis,” d’Artagnan uttered with amazement. “Look at these dead Spaniards by the cannon! Did Athos do this all by himself?”

“If anyone could take out an entire cannon crew by himself—even two or three crews—it’s Athos!” Aramis paused to catch his breath, tiring from the search. “Where could he be?”

D’Artagnan looked around, frowning at the frenzied activity of the French soldiers on the hillside. He paused as he saw something glinting in the sunlight to the right. “Aramis, over there!” he pointed.

Aramis brushed by the Gascon and ran toward the object but suddenly stopped in his tracks, causing d’Artagnan to run into his back and nearly knock him over.

“What it is it, ‘Mis?” d’Artagnan followed the medic’s line of vision to see the broken metal fleur-de-lis of the captain’s pauldron. “Oh God…”

“No!” Aramis yelled as he recognized the dark leather doublet with the new pauldron adorned with the formal metal emblem of the fleur-de-lis.

“Oh God, Aramis…” d’Artagnan choked back a sob at the sight. “No… no!” the Gascon stared at the unmoving, bloody form of their captain lying face-down in the grass.

The men ran and fell to their knees beside the captain, exchanging terrified glances.

Aramis reached out with shaking hands to roll over the bloodied body of his friend. He turned him gently as d’Artagnan held Athos’ head steady, softly putting his head down on the grass.

The medic let a cry escape, gasping at the sight of his friend covered in blood and riddled with several pieces of jagged shards protruding from places all over his body.

“Aramis, is he…?” d’Artagnan asked tearfully.

Aramis reached toward his friend’s neck but stopped, suddenly too afraid. “No,” he shook his head, not wanting to know. He couldn’t face the fear gripping at his heart so hard his hand trembled and his chest heaved with short, quick pants. “I can’t… I can’t do it.” 

“Aramis?” the Gascon touched his friend on the shoulder encouragingly. “Please, we need to know.” 

The medic took a deep breath and reached out his hand again, “please God,” he prayed. “Please Athos…” 

Aramis put his shaking fingers on Athos’ neck and held his breath… and waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The **demi-culverin** used 9 or 10 pound solid shot and had an effective range of 1,800 feet. Demi-culverins were valued by generals for their range, accuracy and effectiveness. They were often used in sieges for wall and building demolition.
> 
> The **culebrina** was a piece of artillery used in the 16th and 17th Centuries by the Spanish; they were characterized by the long barrel tube with a 30-32 length of caliber. The culebrina were used for both land and ships with various distinguished types. The culebrina used balls ranging from 16 to 24 pounds, making them a very powerful weapon, especially the 24 pounder!
> 
>  **Media culebrina** or "verso" used solid shot sized 9 to 12 pounds was the most widely used by the Spaniards, because it was more easily handled.
> 
>  
> 
> **Thought for the Day:**
> 
>  
> 
> So, the army has arrived but yet Aramis and d’Artagnan find the bridge has already collapsed on top of their friends; and Athos went on his daring mission but was grievously wounded... and still the bridge fell. Were their missions a failure? 
> 
> I don’t think so! Aramis and d’Artagnan successfully retrieved the French army to wipe out the Spaniards laying siege to the city of Carcassonne and the bridge. The army arrived in time to stop the Spaniards from completely obliterating the Musketeers into dust, which the callous enemy would certainly have done. 
> 
> Athos’s mission is harder to determine, fully. There is no realistic way that Athos could have disabled all the cannon on the hillside, but he could disable the ones aimed directly at the bridge. The death toll could have been a lot worse, had the two missions not been undertaken. Not every military mission goes exactly as planned and I wanted to show that in this chapter. However, Athos’s _personal_ actions would still be recognized for his selfless bravery, as his actions were exemplary and gallant—no matter the outcome. Perhaps this chapter left you wondering “why bother?” As I said, not all missions are black and white but it’s the individual soldier who makes a difference. Thoughts to ponder...


	8. Assessing the Injuries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What you and Aramis did for the sake of the men under the bridge was very bold and dauntless; what Porthos did to protect the other men around him was fearless; and what your captain did to save his company of men was valiant. All of you boys are heroes—never forget that, son.”

Aramis put his shaking fingers on Athos’ neck as he held his breath and waited. He pressed harder on the neck and waited again. “Oh God, please…” he panicked.

The medic waited for the beating of the heart to make itself known under the touch of his fingers but he felt nothing. A sob escaped as Aramis readjusted his fingers; he pressed harder and closed his eyes as he concentrated, as if willing the heart to beat.

“Aramis?” D’Artagnan’s heart fell to his feet as tears slipped from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Aramis…?”

Aramis waited… his heart skipped a beat and jumped to his throat as he finally felt a light flutter of movement under his fingertips. The medic pressed even harder to reassure his mind that he wasn’t imagining the heartbeat.

He felt it again…. and again. He let out a relieved breath as the strangled sob burst out in force, nodding to d’Artagnan that Athos still lived.

“He’s still alive!” the medic wiped away the tears rolling down his cheeks. “I don’t know how… but he’s still alive!” he cried. “D’Artagnan, he’s in such bad shape…”

“What can I do to help, Aramis?” D’Artagnan immediately offered his help, ready to assist the medic with anything to help their captain live.

Colonel Bélanger approached and stopped next to the Musketeers. “Lieutenant General de Crécuy has declared the hillside all clear. The cité gates have been opened to us and the general has gone in ahead to meet with General Turenne and Minister Tréville,” he reported.

“Our captain needs a physician immediately—he is in very bad shape!” Aramis informed Colonel Bélanger.

The colonel turned to his aide, “Go fetch a litter,” he ordered. “Quickly!”

“Oui, Colonel Bélanger,” the soldier saluted and then ran down the hill.

“I will see to it that your captain is taken to the cité physician immediately,” the colonel nodded. “Now I must see to my own men; if you would excuse me,” the colonel clicked his boot heels together smartly. With a nod, he went down the hill issuing orders to his men.

“Aramis, look!” D’Artagnan pointed to Athos’ neck. “Where is this blood coming from? It looks… it looks like it’s coming from inside his ear!”

“Oh God…” Aramis gasped. He took his handkerchief and wiped the blood away from the stained neck and face, revealing a thin trickle of crimson spilling from the right ear. “Merde,” the medic cursed under his breath. 

“What’s wrong, ‘Mis?” d’Artagnan asked anxiously. “What does it mean?”

“It could mean either that his eardrum has been injured or he has a fractured skull.” Aramis reported as he felt along his friend’s skull the same as he did with Porthos. “There is no way I can really tell out here like this, dammit!”

“Damn,” d’Artagnan muttered. “Look at all of these shards in his body,” the Gascon started to reach for a particularly jagged piece in Athos’ arm.

“No!” Aramis smacked away d’Artagnan’s hand. “Do not touch—we must wait until he is in surgery. If we remove the metal shards now, he could bleed out,” the medic held his handkerchief against a deep cut on Athos’s head.

“But there’s metal nearly everywhere, Aramis,” the Gascon’s voice cracked. “He’s got cuts all over his head, face, neck, and hands… everywhere!”

“I know, d’Artagnan,” the medic said, wiping the tears spilling from his eyes. “We’ll take care of him; he’s going to be alright. Athos is strong—Athos has always been strong.”

“But even Athos has his limits,” the young Gascon smoothed the hair away from Athos’ eyes. “This may be more than his body can take.”

“Don’t talk like that, dammit! I won’t hear of it,” Aramis pressed harder on the bleeding head wound. “He’s going to be okay—he has to be.”

Soldiers finally arrived with the litter. “We were told by Colonel Bélanger to take the patient inside the fortress to see either Doctor Emerie or Jarreau,” the men lowered the litter to the ground beside Athos. “If you are ready, Monsieur, we will take him now.”

Aramis stood, preparing to transfer the captain to the stretcher as d’Artagnan moved to get the captain’s feet. With a nod, the two Musketeers gently lifted Athos onto the stretcher as Aramis carefully tucked in the arms close to the captain’s body.

“Alright, he’s ready,” Aramis announced. 

“Please be careful with him,” d’Artagnan called out as the soldiers lifted the litter and its precious cargo.

“Let’s go.” Aramis turned to leave but did a double-take as he saw a pool of blood soaking into the dirt. “Mother Mary…”

“Where did all of that blood come from?” d’Artagnan asked after following the medic’s wide eyes to the ground. “Is all that from the metal shards?”

“He was lying on his belly when we found him but I didn’t think to check his back!” Aramis stooped to finger the blood. “This amount of blood had to come from a deep penetrating wound, possibly a stab or a gunshot wound. “God, I didn’t check his back… why didn’t I check?”

“Aramis, don’t do this,” d’Artagnan said, squeezing the medic gently on the arm. “We don’t have time; we’ll be sure to point out his back wound to the doctors once we’re inside. We’ll make sure Athos gets thoroughly checked out, okay? Come on, we need to catch up,” d’Artagnan said, running ahead. 

Aramis nodded and took a deep breath then ran to catch up to the soldiers bearing his captain toward the walled city. The Musketeers looked down at their bloodied captain and traded silent glances; they were crushed, seeing their captain with the severity of his injuries, in such condition.

As elite soldiers, the Musketeers have seen their fair share of wounded men. They’ve been well-versed in critical and even fatal wounds… but this was different. This was their captain; this was their friend; this was their brother.

Now, foreboding fear clenched their hearts with possibilities of Athos being mortally wounded—the fear was so real it choked the air from their chests. No! Athos being mortally wounded was not a thought either man was willing to give credence to—not even for a moment.

But then again, d’Artagnan looked at Aramis, almost too afraid to ask the question burning in his mind, but yet he had to know. “Is he going to die, Aramis?” his voice cracked as a tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

“I don’t know,” Aramis’ hoarse voice croaked. “God, I don’t know…”

**Bridge Rubble:**

The soldiers finished digging out the Musketeers and had them lying side by side in the grass where the bridge once stood. Many of the men were bleeding profusely from head wounds and other wounds where large chunks of stone left their mark when the bridge fell. 

Blood seeped from Porthos’ neck, head and back where sharp edges of large stones had cut into the body of the Musketeer as they rained down on the men seeking refuge. “We need to get him to a doctor, and be quick about it,” said a soldier as he prepared to lift the large man.

The soldiers lifted Porthos and grunted in surprise at the weight of the Musketeer, “He is a big, strong one, isn’t he?”

“He sure is,” the other soldier bellowed as they carried the heavy load. “It’s obvious he was hurt using his body to protect the others,” grunted one soldier. “I heard that being in the Musketeers made the man an elite member of a brotherhood. I never knew what they meant by that… until now.”

**Basilica Saint- Nazaire, Carcassonne:**

“Bring the men in here,” Sister Catherine instructed the soldiers carrying in litters of wounded Musketeers. The men were temporarily laid in rows on the floor in the nave, where the sisters had room to work. Tables were being set up in the left aisle wing, perpendicular to the nave, where the wounded would be tended by the physicians. The sisters were all trained and experienced nurses, each ready to help the doctors assess and treat the injuries. To handle the many wounded men being brought in to the basilica, they created a triage system in which the more serious injuries would be tended to first.

“This one needs immediate attention,” Sister Thérèse said of Captain Athos. “He has not long to wait—he must have care immediately if he is to live.”

“The large man here also,” said another nurse. “He needs tending to right away; it appears that he has a serious head wound.”

“We only have two physicians, Doctor Emerie and myself,” said Doctor Jarreau. “We cannot possibly treat each of these wounded men without assistance, Sister.”

“We are quite experienced nurses, Doctor, and we can help treat the lesser wounded men, while you tend to the more severe and urgent cases,” Sister Thérèse offered. The nurse proceeded to fill the doctor in on the specific injuries of the captain, including the gunshot wound to his back.

“Thank you, Sister Thérèse,” Doctor Jarreau nodded. “I will take care of the captain; while Doctor Emerie will treat the large Musketeer—they are both critically wounded and need care immediately.”

The litters were placed on long tables in the left wing, along the pillars where it was well-lit by the stained glass windows. The attending nurses gathered the necessary supplies for surgery, such as clean cloths, brandy, and buckets of fresh water, as the physicians laid out their medical kits with appropriate surgical tools.

Physician Jarreau cut through the leather strap crossing Athos’ chest, and then cut away the strap under the pauldron on his right shoulder.

“Don’t!” Aramis suddenly blurted out as he stepped to the table to stop the doctor from damaging the captain’s pauldron. “I can easily unbuckle this to remove it so I can set it aside for the captain,” the medic said as he set out to save the precious leather article, though damaged by the explosion on the hill.

In addition to the jagged pieces of metal protruding in multiple places on Athos’ severely wounded body, the pauldron also had its share of scars, including the chipped fleur-de-lis. No matter, the pauldron was precious to every Musketeer who earned the right to wear it. Though the captain’s was now damaged, it was still precious—and it would forever serve as a reminder of his sacrifice on that hill. 

Once Aramis removed the pauldron, the physician resumed cutting away the leather doublet from around the shards of metal and stone. D’Artagnan and Aramis couldn’t hold back the groans as they stared in shock at the strips of dark leather that was once Athos’ pristine and regarded doublet.

The captain’s pants were cut away and his boots pulled off, leaving him in his braies. “Damn, it looks like his right ankle is broken,” Aramis growled as he examined the purple, swollen foot.

“Yes, it looks broken, alright,” Doctor Jarreau nodded his agreement. “We’ll have to treat and set his foot after we tend to his more serious wounds, especially retrieving that musket ball from his back.”

The physician cut away the blood-soaked black linen shirt to reveal the torso riddled with pieces of metal, broken and irregular in size and shape.

“Oh God,” d’Artagnan gasped in horror at the ghastly sight of his mentor and friend. The Gascon faltered, tilting sideways as he turned a ghostly pale. “Athos,” he whispered as he started to fall.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis caught the young Musketeer and steadied him on his feet until he regained his composure. “Why don’t you go over there and help out with Porthos,” Aramis suggested. “It looks like Doctor Emerie could use more help.”

“But…” the Gascon protested.

“But nothing,” Aramis interrupted. “I’m going to help take care of Athos; we’ve got a lot of shards to remove here. Someone needs to look after Porthos,” he said, tipping his head toward the table holding the large Musketeer.

“Okay,” d’Artagnan relented. “Take good care of him, please.”

“You know we will,” Aramis nodded. “We have to get these shards removed before we can turn him and examine his back,” he turned to the doctor with a sigh. The medic picked up a pair of long tweezers and began the arduous task of removing the pieces of metal from the front of his friend’s body.

The men worked quickly as a spreading pool of blood formed underneath the captain’s left side. Finally, once the shards had been removed, the men rolled Athos onto his side to inspect the gunshot wound.

“Dammit to hell,” Aramis cursed as he observed the ragged hole where a musket ball entered Athos’ lower back, just above the waist. The men rolled him back over to examine the chest for an exit wound but found nothing but the earlier shard injuries.

“This means the ball is still lodged inside his chest somewhere,” Doctor Jarreau stated to Aramis with a frown. The physician laid his ear to Athos’ chest and listened carefully, first on the left side and then on the right.

“Oh no,” the doctor groaned. He furrowed his brow as he listened, moving his ear from one side to the other. “Damn,” the doctor muttered, pausing as he listened to Athos’ chest again. “However, I do believe I know which side of his chest the ball is located.”

“What’s going on, Doctor?” Aramis asked with concern.

“His breaths are uneven,” the doctor moved his hands over the ribcage, feeling the ribs for cracks or breaks. “He has no breath sounds on the right side—which means his lung has more than likely collapsed,” his hands stopped. “Yes, I also detect two broken ribs on the right side.”

“This is not good,” he sighed deeply. Aramis snapped his fingers as an idea came to mind. He turned to the nurse, “Do you have any cotton, a small glass bowl, and a candle we can use?”

“What do you have in mind, Aramis?’ the doctor asked.

“Have you heard of the ancient treatment, mihceme, intended for draining the chest cavity and reinflating the lung?” the medic asked.

“I’ve only read of the procedure,” Doctor Jarreau replied. “I’ve never seen it done, nor have I ever performed it.”

“I’ve had the procedure done on me,” the medic admitted, then held up his hand to halt the questions. “It’s a long story; I’ll explain later.” Turning back to the nurse, “we need a candle, glass bowl, some brandy, and cotton to burn—will you fetch those items for us?”

“Yes, I can go get those things for you,” Sister Thérèse offered then scrambled from the room.

“It feels like his right arm is broken.” Aramis returned his attention to Athos. “Oh, earlier we noticed blood trickling from his right ear!” the medic remembered the alarming find by d’Artagnan.

“Oh dear,” the doctor uttered. “Sister Joséphine, could you bring me that lantern, please?”

Aramis turned Athos’ head to give the doctor a good view inside the ear. Taking the lantern, Jarreau directed the light into the ear canal so he could examine the damage. “It appears he has a perforated eardrum. I see a thin tear in the tissue, probably caused by the explosion—the extreme noise.”

“Could that cause… will he lose his…” Aramis stumbled over the words he was too afraid to outright ask.

“Will he lose his hearing?” the doctor smiled as he finished the question for Aramis. “Perhaps temporarily, depending how far he was from the explosion; however, a perforated eardrum will heal on its own quite naturally in a couple of months. He should have no permanent damage to his eardrum.”

“But what about his hearing?” Aramis raised an eyebrow, noticing the doctor didn’t really answer the question.

“We won’t know anything for certain until he wakes up but he’ll most likely experience temporary deafness, or some ringing in the ear, at least initially.”

“Good Lord,” Aramis shook his head at the vague diagnosis, which still sounded rather grim. “Athos, they really got you good, didn’t they?” he sighed.

The two men, as well as the nurse, continued to pluck away at the shards, dropping them into a bowl with a _clink!_

“Some of the pieces are too deep and will have to be removed surgically,” Aramis said as they finished pulling out what they could of the metal fragments.

“I have all of the supplies necessary for the captain’s chest treatment,” Nurse Thérèse announced as she returned with an armload.

“Alright then, let’s get started,” Doctor Jarreau picked up the bottle of brandy to pour it over Athos, “It’s time to help this man before he bleeds to death.”

**Meanwhile at Porthos’ Table:**

Doctor Emerie removed the large Musketeer’s dust-covered doublet and weapons with the help of d’Artagnan and Nurse Aurélie. The Gascon put the items aside in the corner then returned to assisting and treating the wounded Porthos.

“I won’t be so careful with his linens, mind you,” the doctor said as he cut the shirt into pieces, allowing them to be pulled away by the nurse. “Help me turn him over so we can examine his back.”

D’Artagnan, Doctor Emerie and the nurse gently turned Porthos so he could be examined but no one was expecting the severity of the damage done to his back and shoulder. Large bruises were already forming, nearly covering the entire surface of his back. Blood seeped from deep cuts caused by the jagged edges of falling rocks.

A deep cut at the base of Porthos’ skull made the physician scowl and draw in a hissing breath through his teeth. “I’m certain he has a concussion, and it’s probable that he has a skull fracture; I can see and feel signs of trauma to the skull,” he said as he ran his fingers over the Musketeer’s head. “However, this blood will have to be cleaned away before I can properly assess the damage.”

“Doctor, what about his ribs?” D’Artagnan ran his hands along Porthos’ ribs, “it feels like these ribs are giving way and may be broken.” The Gascon pointed to three ribs on the Musketeer’s right side.

“Yes, these ribs are broken,” the doctor confirmed after feeling the ribs for himself. “As long as the bones do not shift, we can wrap his ribs tightly and they should heal fine, but we must be very careful as we turn him. Are you a medic, d’Artagnan?”

“Me?” d’Artagnan asked with surprise. “Well, no… I mean, somewhat…” the Gascon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Aramis was training me as a back-up medic for the regiment but I’m still trying to learn. I’m not that good… really,” d’Artagnan added softly.

“Don’t sell yourself short, young man,” the doctor complimented. “You’re doing just fine; you’re doing quite well so far.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” d’Artagnan sighed with relief. “Now about his back injuries, do you think that he might have internal damage?”

“We will have to watch for possible bruising to his kidneys, but most of the injury is probably deep bruising to his muscles across the top of his back and shoulders,” the doctor pointed to Porthos’ upper back. “It looks like he has a dislocated right shoulder and his right arm is also broken.” 

“He was shielding men from falling debris,” d’Artagnan said as he rubbed his hand over Porthos’ unruly curls. “It appears his right side took the brunt of the injuries.”

“Indeed, Porthos is a very brave man,” the doctor nodded. “But from what I’ve seen of you Musketeers, you’re a very courageous group of men. I was told about your intrepid captain and his bold and daring run up that hill in the face of enemy cannon—there are not many people willing to make such personal sacrifice. Indeed, no one really knows what bravery they are capable of until facing such a situation as you Musketeers did.”

“Athos and Porthos, they are the true heroes.” D’Artagnan smiled, his eyes watering.

“Nonsense, I also heard about what you and Aramis did for your company still under the bridge,” the doctor countered. “Do you think that floating downriver in icy water in the pitch-black darkness, while facing the possibility of being captured and beheaded is _not_ heroic?”

D’Artagnan shrugged slightly, not sure of how to answer. “I don’t know…”

“My dear young man, if not for you and Aramis, a dozen men would be dying out there while Doctor Jarreau and I sat trapped within these walls helpless to give them aid. Your captain and Porthos would certainly have died had the army not shown up, as would the rest of your company. Indeed, do not sell yourself short, d’Artagnan,” the doctor smiled. 

“What you and Aramis did for the sake of the men under the bridge was very bold and dauntless; what Porthos did to protect the other men around him was fearless; and what your captain did to save his company of men was valiant. All of you boys are heroes—never forget that, son.”

“Thank you… on behalf of all of us,” d’Artagnan whispered as he gazed with worry at his two friends.

“Let us hope Porthos and Athos survive their daring sacrifice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As early as 1649, Jean Riolan the Younger, (1577- 1657) took care of a patient with a pierced ear drum, after which the patient's hearing improved. This occurred as a result of an accidental ear drum injury while cleaning the ear canal with an ear-spoon. In 17th and 18th centuries, several pioneers in medicine (Thomas Willis, Antonio Mario Valsalva, William Cheselden) conducted experiments in an effort to ascertain the function of the ear drum in hearing. At the end of the 18th century, ear drum perforation was indiscriminately performed by quacks and "physicians" in England, France, and Germany. Ear drum perforation was performed in many places even for the healing of deaf and dumb.
> 
> A hole or rupture in the eardrum, a thin membrane that separates the ear canal and the middle ear, is called a perforated eardrum. The medical term for eardrum is tympanic membrane. The middle ear is connected to the nose by the Eustachian tube, which equalizes pressure in the middle ear. A perforated eardrum is often accompanied by decreased hearing and sometimes liquid discharge.
> 
> A perforated eardrum from trauma can occur:
> 
> If the ear is struck directly
> 
> With a skull fracture
> 
> After a sudden explosion
> 
> If an object (such as a bobby pin, Q-tip, or stick) is pushed too far into the ear canal
> 
> Typically, no specific treatment is needed for a ruptured eardrum; the vast majority of ruptured eardrums heal within three months. If the eardrum is slow to heal, the doctor may put a patch over the ear. In some cases, surgery may be needed to repair a ruptured eardrum; the surgery is usually done on an outpatient basis. (source: WebMD)


	9. Proven Your Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All of you boys have proven your worth as King’s Musketeers and soldiers of France,” Tréville interrupted. “The king will be very pleased with his Musketeers… and I… well, I am proud of each and every one of you—damn proud!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I use a lot of detail when describing the surgeries and treatment of the boys, as you well know if you've read my other stories. However, with this story, I am keeping the details more general and less specific to allow more time for dialogue and character interaction. There is an old friend who shows up during surgery that I thought you would enjoy seeing again! Thank you all for reading and reviewing!

Doctor Emerie and d’Artagnan cleaned away the blood from Porthos’ face, feverishly scrubbing the blood, dirt and dust from the dark skin.

D’Artagnan turned Porthos’ head to wipe away the caked-on, dried blood from his hairline when he suddenly froze. “Oh no,” he blurted with dread. “Doctor Emerie, he has bloody fluid running from his ear, just like Athos did!”

“Damn, yes, I see,” Doctor Emerie concurred as he dabbed his fingers in the fluid and studied it closely. “I think this confirms my suspicions that he has a fractured skull, just as I had feared he might. One of the symptoms of such is fluid leaking from either the nose or the ear.”

“Oh God, Porthos…” D’Artagnan went pale and had to lean on the table for support.

“Considering that I heard the enemy destroyed Le Pont Vieux with your friends still underneath, it is no surprise that Porthos took a beating from the falling pieces,” the doctor shook his head. “Surprisingly, I do not feel any severely depressed fractures of the bone. However, I do feel a spot above his ear where some of the bone may have to be removed—a preventative measure to keep the bone fragments from pressing down on his brain.”

“Doctor, have you ever done such a surgery on the head before?” the young Musketeer asked with apprehension.

“Actually, I have, d’Artagnan,” the doctor replied. “I would prefer to _not_ do a complete trepanation—where I would cut out an entire circle of skull—but only remove the depressed fragments to prevent damage to his brain.”

“You can do that?” the Gascon asked, looking rather green and swallowing hard to keep his stomach down.

“Yes, I can,” he smiled. “While I am busy with the head wound, perhaps you can help Nurse Aurélie set his shoulder and broken wrist, hmm?” the doctor suggested as he retrieved his trephine set. 

D’Artagnan nodded as he moved his focus to the dislocated shoulder and broken wrist injuries, a welcome distraction to appease his nauseous stomach. “This is more at my skill level anyway,” the Gascon said as he crinkled his nose at the bloodied head wound.

“You can help me set his shoulder and wrap it,” Nurse Aurélie suggested. “We will then prepare a comfrey poultice for his wrist and his ribs before we wrap them, alright?” 

“Yes, I think I can handle that,” d’Artagnan agreed as he helped the nurse set Porthos’ shoulder and wrist. They prepared the comfrey poultice and spread the dark green herb liberally over the damaged ribs and wrist. To secure the poultice, it was then covered with bandages wrapped around his ribcage and around his arm. “What does this comfrey herb do?”

“The comfrey will help the broken ribs, in particular, heal better as we can’t do much but wrap them; it also helps to heal the bruised muscles by reducing soreness and swelling,” the nurse answered.

Meanwhile, Doctor Emerie used his trephine saw to cut around the broken pieces of bone and followed with tweezers to meticulously remove all the small fragments as a nurse wiped away the seeping blood. D’Artagnan did his best to avoid looking in that general direction until the doctor finished the trepanation procedure, having just removed very small fragments of bone, before he stitched the wound closed.

“The linear fractures should all heal on their own,” Doctor Emerie reported. “The worst of the fractures were above his right ear, which we just took care of. Help me turn him so we can treat the wounds on the back of his head.”

“I see a spot here, doctor.” D’Artagnan pointed to a deep laceration on the back of Porthos’ head.

“Ah, yes,” the doctor carefully examined the wound, running his fingers along the fracture. “The fracture isn’t depressed but any further damage to that spot could cause the bone to shift; we must not allow this wound to be disturbed for at least ten days. Nurse, if you would apply the comfrey poultice to this area and wrap it, that should work wonders in healing.”

The team finished cleaning and suturing the cuts, with the final applications of poultice on the many bruises and fractures on Porthos’ back, shoulder, arm and neck. After many hours toiling over the stressful surgery and treatment of the Musketeer’s wounds, the team was fatigued, worn, and thirsty.

“Now we wait,” Doctor Emerie wiped away the perspiration from his brow as he washed his surgical tools with brandy and wiped them dry with a clean towel before putting them away.

“Is he going to be okay?” D’Artagnan accepted a glass of water as he softly stroked the bandaged head of his friend.

“We’ll keep an eye on him for any changes in his condition but I imagine that he’ll be unconscious for many hours yet, considering the grievous injuries to his head.”

“Is there a chance that he could have brain damage?” D’Artagnan continued to finger the bandages covering Porthos’ head, smoothing away the curls from the cloth.

“We won’t know the extent of the damage until he awakens, d’Artagnan,” the doctor answered truthfully. “Until then, all we can do is wait and pray. On the other hand, I was told by Aramis that you had a gunshot wound to your arm earlier… and those fingers of yours need a little tending to as well. Why don’t I take a look, hmm?” the doctor smiled as the Gascon sat down wearily and sighed.

**Athos’ Table:**

Doctor Jarreau took the sharp scalpel to cut a deep incision into the chest cavity; using the forceps the physician separated the tissue from the ribcage. “Ah, I see the fractured ribs, number four and five,” the doctor stated to the nurse. The doctor used a probing tool in search of the elusive musket ball but soon was shaking his head in frustration.

“I can’t see anything with all of this blood pooling,” the doctor frowned as he continued his search for the lead ball.

“Once you find the ball, we can do the cupping procedure to pull out the blood and reinflate the lung,” the medic stated as he swabbed the cotton to soak up the blood. “Mihceme works like a charm—I’m living proof it works!”

“Yes, I’d like to hear that story sometime, I’m sure it’s most fascinating,” Jarreau smiled. “Ah, here we are!” the physician perked as his tool hit a metal object inside the lung. “Hand me the tweezers, please.”

Using the tool, the doctor carefully extracted the misshapen ball from Athos’ right lung and dropped it in the proffered bowl. Jarreau examined the ribs to make certain they would not shift, then repaired and sutured internal damage done by the ball. He didn’t close the incision area yet but left it partially open to allow the cupping procedure to remove the liquids from the chest. 

Aramis gathered the cupping supplies and after having soaked the cotton in brandy, the medic lit the cotton on fire then placed it in the glass bowl where it burned for several seconds. The cotton was removed just before the bowl was quickly placed over the open incision of the chest, which allowed the heat to create a vacuum. The doctor and medic smiled as they watched the fluids seep from the chest as the procedure worked just as Aramis had foretold.

“We repeat this process until all of the blood has been removed, and any excess air in the chest cavity, so the lung can reinflate on its own naturally,” Aramis instructed the doctor. The medic coached the physician through the cupping procedure as it was repeated and, by the third and final time the procedure was performed, it was completed by Doctor Jarreau on his own.

“Thank you, for that incredible instruction,” the doctor beamed proudly at having learned something new. “You are a very talented medic, Aramis,” he complimented. “Now, let us close him up and take care of these other wounds, shall we?”

Once the chest surgery was complete, the team proceeded to remove the remaining pieces of metal shards still deeply embedded in Athos’ flesh. “We’ll take care of the cuts and lacerations, as well as these older wounds here on his temple and there on his shoulder, once we take care of that gunshot entry wound,” Doctor Jarreau told the medic.

“Those older wounds happened when we were both hit with flying pieces of stone after a ball hit the bridge,” Aramis shuddered at the memory. “I was hit on top of my head and Athos was hit on the temple and his shoulder…” he paused.

“Well, I wanted to take a look at those hands of yours anyway,” the doctor pointed to the cut fingers. “It’s amazing you can do such detailed work with fingers in that condition—but now you admit to a head wound too? Just wait until I’m done with Athos…” he scolded. 

The team finished with the gunshot wound and rolled Athos back over to tend to the broken wrist and ankle, as well as the older wounds. “Nurse Thérèse, go see if they have any of that comfrey poultice left over from Porthos; I’d like to give it a try on our captain to see if it’s as valuable a healing element as Doctor Emerie claims it to be,” he said with a wink.

D’Artagnan brought over the extra comfrey poultice and handed it to Aramis, who nodded his thanks as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “How is Athos doing?” the Gascon scowled as he took in the messy array of bloody towels, cotton, and blood smears on the table and floor surrounding the patient.

“Well, we’ve extracted the ball and removed the blood from his lung and chest cavity so the lung can reinflate,” Aramis wearily explained. “We’ve removed the collection of metal pieces from his body and stitched up the cuts; now we are about to tend to his broken arm and ankle,” he said as he took the poultice from d’Artagnan.

“How are you doing?” d’Artagnan asked with concern. The surgeries had been going on for hours and his friend looked bone-weary. “You look exhausted, Aramis.”

“I’ll rest after the surgery...” Aramis turned to the side as he felt a sneeze coming. _Achooo!_ “God above, I don’t need this,” he groaned. “I need to get back to Athos,” the medic wiped at his brow again then returned to finish treating Athos.

As the team tended to the broken bones and application of the poultice, a very familiar presence suddenly burst into the basilica—his voice echoed loudly through the nave. “Where are the Musketeers?”

An upset nurse admonished the loud and unwelcomed visitor, “Minister Tréville, you really shouldn’t go in there; you shouldn’t distract the surgeons!”

“I need to see my men,” Tréville ignored the nurse. “Now where are they?”

“Minister Tréville!” D’Artagnan greeted his former commander as he rounded the corner. “It’s wonderful to see you,” he said as he shook the minister’s offered hand.

“It’s good to see you too, d’Artagnan,” the minister forced a smile. “I just wish that it was under better circumstances.”

“Minister,” Aramis wiped his hands clean on a towel then offered his hand, which was readily taken into a firm shake. “It is indeed good to see you, sir.”

“Aramis, it is good to see you too,” Tréville sighed. “How are they?” the minister asked as he looked over at Porthos and then Athos.

Aramis explained to his former captain all the many injuries to Athos and that all they could do now was to wait and see.

“And Porthos?” Tréville inquired of the large Musketeer.

It was d’Artagnan’s turn to fill in the minister on Porthos’ condition. He explained the severity of his head wound, back injury, the dislocated shoulder and broken bones as Aramis and the minister listened with increasing frowns. 

Aramis joined the minister as he walked to Porthos’ table. The medic ran his long fingers over the pristine bandages wrapped around the Musketeer’s head. His brow creased as he took in the bruised and battered body covered in bandages that oozed with the dark green poultice.

“If only there was a way we could have prevented this from happening,” Aramis whispered to Porthos. “If only we could have arrived with the army sooner,” the medic turned his head to sneeze into the crook of his elbow.

“Capt…” d’Artagnan stopped himself short. “I’m sorry, you would think you’ve held your position as minister long enough for me to call you by the proper title, _Minister_ Tréville.”

“I almost prefer the title of _Captain,”_ Tréville lamented. “As Minister of War, I am involved in too many administrative duties now—meetings and negotiations. Entirely too much politicking for my taste,” he grumbled.

“Sounds absolutely dreadful, Minister,” Aramis chimed in.

“Sir, what happened here?” d’Artagnan dared to ask. “How long has Carcassonne been surrounded, how did this happen?”

“Somehow the Spaniards knew of the meeting between General Turenne and myself,” Minister Tréville paused, “but this is not the time or the place for such discussion, gentlemen; we can talk about this later. I came here to see the men, and to see Athos and Porthos,” Tréville glanced at both tables. “I have been informed of what happened out there and of each of your… sacrifices.” 

“Minister, we all did what we had to do…” Aramis said wearily.

“I understand that, Aramis,” Tréville’s tone was clipped as he scrubbed a hand down his face. “At such cost…”

“Sir, I can’t believe any of this.” Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. “I can’t believe what Athos had to do—he shouldn’t have had to go up that hill!” 

D’Artagnan sensed the temper rising in his friend and decided to change the subject, or at least the focus of the discussion. “Minister, how many wounded men are still out there… our Musketeers, I mean,” the Gascon clarified.

“All of the wounded are being tended to,” the minister replied. “We have more than enough nurses and volunteers helping care for the Musketeers, as well as the wounded French soldiers.”

“How many… how many dead are there?” D’Artagnan’s eyes bored into the minister, searching for answers.

“I don’t know yet, gentlemen,” Tréville sighed heavily. “I haven’t been informed of the fatalities yet; I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”

“I already know the count will be too high,” Aramis growled. “Two teams of Musketeers went out into the night to seek help and never returned. Porthos used his own body to shield the men when the bridge came down; and Athos…” his voice cracked.

“Athos saved the men, sir,” d’Artagnan finished for Aramis. “But it almost got him killed,” he finished softly.

“Athos acted bravely, boldly for the good of his men and without regard to his own wellbeing,” Tréville paused as he glanced at the motionless captain. 

“Sir…?”

“When I chose him to take command of the regiment, I did so because I knew he was capable of making hard decisions—life and death decisions—for the good of the regiment and without bias. I saw in him a successful leader whose example would inspire the fighting morale of his men—men who would follow him anywhere. Athos would never send his men into a situation where he wasn’t willing to go himself,” Tréville breathed deeply, thinking about his next words. “I saw in him the makings of a great captain… and he proved it up on that hill.”

“But he may die having proved your point true,” d’Artagnan whispered.

“He accomplished the mission he set out to do,” Tréville reminded. “He set out to save his men, and he most certainly did by disabling those cannon. However, Athos and Porthos are not the only ones who bravely sacrificed themselves to save the company.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan stood quietly, staring at the floor.

“I heard about how you risked your lives with the daring act of swimming downriver at night in the cold water to get help.” Tréville smiled as he looked between the two Musketeers. “You both could have been killed yet you went anyway… to save the men.”

“Minister, we had no choice,” Aramis huffed with disgust. “We saw no other way out; no other way to get help—we were dying out there!” the medic shouted, his temper flaring again.

“I know, Aramis, I know,” Minister Tréville put a comforting hand on the medic’s shoulder. “I know why you went down that river and I agree with your decision,” the minister nodded approvingly. “Going downriver was one of the most courageous, selfless acts I have ever heard of within the Musketeer regiment—along with what your captain did on that hill.”

“Sir, we don’t deserve…” d’Artagnan began.

“All of you boys have proven your worth as King’s Musketeers and soldiers of France,” Tréville interrupted. “The king will be very pleased with his Musketeers… and I… well, I am proud of each and every one of you—damn proud!”

*****

Sudden commotion and yelling jolted Minister Tréville and the Musketeers from their discussion to a sudden emergency as Nurse Thérèse yelled with alarm for the doctor. The nurse frantically pressed her fingers to Athos’ neck then laid her ear to his chest to listen for a heartbeat, but shook her head. She sat up with a look of panic, “Doctor Jarreau, I have no pulse… his heart has stopped!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trepination:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Trephination is a procedure that dates to pre-historic times. It was initially used as a means to release demons from the head, to relieve cranial pressure, and to facilitate the elevation of depressed skull fragments. But the 17th Century, specialized surgical sets (trephining set), complete with saws, drills and boring tools, were made for this type of operation. Many trepanation surgeries left the patient with large holes in their skulls, which never would fully heal.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Comfrey Herb:**
> 
>  
> 
> Comfrey has been known for centuries as a priceless herb for wounds, sprains, bruises, and broken bones. Comfrey ointments have been used to heal bruises and pulled muscles and ligaments for centuries. The name com-firma means, simply, “knitting of bones,” which is why comfrey is often called knitbone and healing herb.  
> Comfrey’s success as a healing agent is due to a special substance it contains called allantoin—a substance that speeds the production of new cells and aids in healing wounds. The comfrey makes cells grow faster, which is one of the reasons why comfrey-treated bones knit faster and wounds mend quicker, and burns heal with little to no scarring.


	10. The Last Rites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis tried hard to keep from falling apart. “Athos gave of himself willingly for the good of his men but… we’re not willing to let him go. Please, let him stay—don’t take him away from us.” Aramis’s breath caught as his chest and throat constricted with emotion, “God, let Athos live!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the new chapter! Be back on Monday to finish up the final week.

“Oh God, no!” Aramis yelled as he ran over to the table where Athos lay. Doctor Jarreau was already checking Athos’ pulse and listening to his chest to confirm there was no heartbeat. 

“There’s no heartbeat!” Doctor Jarreau confirmed.

Aramis pounded on Athos’ chest, careful to avoid the right side where his ribs had just been mended. He pounded with his fist again and again over the heart, then pressed down hard in a massaging motion, before stopping to listen to his chest for a heartbeat but heard nothing.

“Dammit, Athos,” Aramis yelled. “Don’t you do this, damn you!” The medic took his fist and pounded it down over Athos’ heart, then pressed his palms into his chest again and again, repeating the compressions multiple times over, stopping only to allow Doctor Jarreau time to listen for a heartbeat.

Once again, the doctor shook his head as he heard no heartbeat; the medic only intensified his actions, repeatedly switching between hitting Athos’ chest with his fist to compressing with his palms. 

“Aramis, stop now,” Minister Tréville ordered as he placed a heavy hand on the medic’s arm to stop the compressions. “Let him go, son.”

“No!” Aramis jerked the hand away and continued with the compressions, “Come on, Athos!” Beads of sweat dripped from the medic’s face like tears onto Athos’ face, rolling along his cheek to disappear into his hair.

“Aramis, stop!” d’Artagnan cried out. “He’s gone… he’s gone!”

“No!” Aramis stopped his reviving efforts and hung his head in defeat. His chest heaved from the exertion of the compressions; he panted heavily as sweat streamed down his face. “God no, no!” Aramis gulped in a deep breath. “Athos, no…”

Doctor Jarreau placed his ear one more time on Athos’ chest, straining hard to listen over the crying coming from the surrounding men. “Quiet, please!” the doctor yelled out as he strained harder to listen.

Everyone held their breath, watching as the doctor pressed his ear against Athos’ chest and closed his eyes in concentration. “I hear something…” the doctor paused. “I hear a faint heartbeat,” he whispered to himself, as though in awe. “I hear a heartbeat!” he stated louder for everyone to hear.

There was a collective release of apprehensive sobs, as if all were too afraid to believe the news. “Are you sure?” d’Artagnan’s shaky voice asked as he wiped away the tears.

Aramis jumped into action and placed his trembling fingers under Athos’ bandage, searching for a pulse. He panicked as he couldn’t find any movement underneath his fingers. “Dammit, doctor, I don’t feel anything! Are you sure you heard a heartbeat?”

“Listen for yourself,” the doctor moved aside to allow Aramis room to listen. Doctor Jarreau snaked his fingers under the bandage to push down hard over the artery in Athos’ neck while keeping his eye on Aramis.

The medic pressed his ear against the bare chest of his friend and listened as he held his breath. He closed his eyes and released the breath he was holding as relief flooded through him in a wash of happy tears. “Thank you, God,” Aramis whispered over and over as he listened to the sweet sound of a heartbeat beneath his ear.

Without thinking, d’Artagnan pulled Minister Tréville into a hug as his own relieved tears flowed. The minister squeezed the Gascon tightly then clapped him on the back as they pulled apart. “Thank God,” Tréville echoed the medic as he let go of d’Artagnan to wipe the tears from his eyes.

“Aramis, can you detect a pulse now?” Doctor Jarreau asked, snapping the medic back into action.

Once again, Aramis pressed his fingers against the artery in Athos’ neck and waited, nodding yes as he felt the soft thumps running against his fingers. “Yes, he has a steady pulse, but it’s weak.”

“His body has been so badly damaged…” the doctor’s voice trailed. “There’s really nothing more we can do for him but wait.”

“Wait for what, doctor?” Aramis snapped. “Wait for him to die, is that what you are saying?” 

“Aramis,” Tréville gently warned.

“No, I’m not going to stand around doing nothing while waiting for Athos to die!”

“We’ve done everything we can, Aramis,” d’Artagnan placed a hand on the medic’s shoulder. “What more can we do?”

“Aramis,” Doctor Jarreau started, “his body just came through a terrible ordeal; his body is in shock from the trauma—it’s going to take time to recover from this.”

“Have faith, Aramis,” Sister Thérèse smiled as she placed her hand reassuringly on the medic’s arm. “If it will help, I will have Father Christophe and the Sisters pray for your captain. There is great power in prayer, Aramis… God still works miracles!”

*****

Aramis fell asleep draped over Athos, still holding his hand. He was roused awake hours later when the doctor came by to check on his patient, testing his pulse to see if the captain’s heart still continued to beat. Finding a pulse, Doctor Jarreau sighed with relief.

Aramis’ tired eyes filled with tears, thankful Athos was fighting to hang on. He turned as he felt a comforting squeeze to his shoulder, nodding as he looked up into d’Artagnan’s questioning eyes.

“How is he, ‘Mis?” the Gascon asked. d’Artagnan’s haggard appearance told of his exhaustion, though he was unwilling to admit it.

Aramis turned back to Athos, absently smoothing back the loose strands of sweat-soaked hair from the pale forehead. He shook his head, “not good, d’Artagnan, but…” he paused to collect himself. “He’s made it this far, which is a good sign. How’s Porthos?”

“He’s holding on also,” d’Artagnan replied wearily. “He still hasn’t regained consciousness yet, though it’s been hours. Aramis, how long could he be unconscious with a skull fracture?”

“There’s no way to really tell, d’Artagnan, with a head injury such as his—he had multiple places hit by falling stones,” Aramis sighed. “No doubt he has a concussion, in addition to the skull fracture—and all the other injuries he’s suffered. Dammit if only we could have gotten help from Castelnaudary sooner—this might not have happened!” Aramis’s temper returned.

“Aramis, we’ve been through this before,” d’Artagnan countered, shaking his head. “It doesn’t do either of them any good to get upset over circumstances beyond our control.”

Aramis nodded quietly and closed his eyes. He felt so tired…

“Look at you, ‘Mis,” d’Artagnan whispered, frowning as he looked at his bone-weary friend. “You’re exhausted, maybe you should get some rest, huh?”

“No, I already fell asleep,” Aramis chided himself. “I should have been watching him but I fell asleep. If he had…”

“Aramis, you can’t fault yourself for being human,” the Gascon pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head with quick motions to wake himself up. “I know you’re worried about Athos, but you’re also exhausted. I think he would understand,” he tipped his chin toward the captain. 

“I’m not the only one who’s exhausted,” the medic smiled at his young friend. “Why don’t you sit with Athos for a while,” Aramis stood and stretched as he yawned. “I’ll go check on Porthos and see how our big stubborn ox is doing.”

d’Artagnan sat down beside Athos and let out a huff of amusement as he thought of his friend, Porthos. If ever there was a time when he was grateful for the large man’s stubborn tendencies, it was now. The severe injuries Porthos suffered from the collapse of the bridge would certainly have claimed the life of a smaller, less determined man but…

The Gascon’s thoughts were interrupted by a string of sneezes, which he covered with the sleeve of his shirt. _Damn, I can’t breathe through my nose and my throat feels scratchy._ He wiped at his face with his other sleeve, suddenly feeling worn out and cold.

“Porthos wanted to go downriver too, remember?” d’Artagnan shuddered as took hold of Athos’s limp hand and began talking to the captain, “it’s a damn good thing you didn’t let Porthos go,” he huffed. “He would have frozen to death in that icy water, as sensitive as he is. He would have _hated_ the water—well, Aramis and I hated it too—but you were right not to let him go. No, I’m glad Porthos stayed with you instead.” 

“We ran into a former Musketeer, his name is Alexandre. Oh, we found your horse, Athos!” the Gascon exclaimed, excited at the memory. “Kim is just fine, can you believe it? Alexandre said he’d take good care of her until you come back to claim her,” he paused to sneeze. “It’s a miracle we found our way to his farm. I mean, what are the chances, huh?”

The Gascon rubbed his hand over Athos’s bandaged chest and sighed at the lack of response. “Alexandre gave us a dry change of clothes; you should have seen the pants on me,” the Gascon laughed. “I know Porthos would have died laughing—I could just hear him now,” he paused to collect his emotions. “Alexandre also gave us hot soup to eat by the fire, which really warmed us up nicely. I don’t think we would have made the ride to Castelnaudary in our wet clothes; we would have frozen to death or caught pneumonia,” he paused as he sneezed again… and again.

“When you are better, we have to go back to Alexandre’s to collect our horses and our uniforms. It feels terribly strange wearing these civilian clothes,” he shook his head disapprovingly. “Anyway, I’d love for you to meet Alexandre—I think you’d like him, Captain.”

“Athos, you know that I’ve had so many of these one-sided conversations with you that I’ve lost count. I guess you could say the same of me too,” he bit his lip sheepishly. “We all need to stop having these kind of conversations—they’re getting really old,” he frowned.

“Aramis is worried about you,” d’Artagnan paused as he became emotional again. “He’s gone to visit with Porthos for a while; I hope you don’t mind my company instead. Dielle told us what you did for the men, running up that hill… and why. Oh, Athos, if only we could have gotten back sooner,” he hung his head.

“Please get better, Athos,” he rubbed his fingers over Athos’s hand. “Please don’t leave us,” d’Artagnan rested his head on Athos’ chest and closed his eyes. “I’m so tired, so tired. I’ll just close my eyes for a little while and rest…”

*****

Aramis smoothed away the unruly curls from the newly wrapped bandage which Nurse Aurélie changed just moments ago. “I always joked that you had a hard head, Porthos, but this is one time I’m glad you really do!” The medic settled in beside his friend and took hold of a limp hand in his own, intertwining their fingers.

“Athos was right in not letting you go downriver, Porthos,” Aramis shivered as he remembered the icy water. “You would have frozen to death. Besides, I know how much you hate the water; when it’s _that_ damn cold, it’s almost unbearable.”

“You know how much I hate the cold…” Aramis’ voice trailed as his mind wandered to another time and place. “I hope I never have to get into cold water like that again but… I’d do it again in a heartbeat to save you and Athos and our brothers. I just wish…”

Aramis sat quietly holding Porthos’ hand as he hung his head with self-reproach. “If only we could have made it back sooner—maybe if we hadn’t stopped at the farm. Lord help me, I know we never would have made that ride in our wet clothes, but still…”

“Oh, guess which horse I rode to Castelnaudary? You would never believe it, Porthos, but I rode on Flip!” Aramis let out a huff of breath, still in wonder over the luck of finding Alexandre’s farm.

“We came across a former Musketeer, his name is Alexandre—I can’t wait for you to meet him. He said that he has two sons serving in the war; he loaned us their clothes to change into since we were soaking wet and frozen.”

“Alexandre said that he hasn’t heard from his boys in a while, I hope they’re both okay. But he’s been collecting our horses, keeping them safe on his farm as he finds them—that’s how I came across Flip. He also has the captain’s horse, Kim…” Aramis paused to sneeze.

“He asked if I wanted to take Athos’s horse, but I said no. I took yours instead—I hope you don’t mind,” he smiled. “Come on, Porthos, I feel like I’m talking to myself here,” he sighed. “Please, brother, wake up for…”

Aramis stopped suddenly. He watched in shock as Sister Thérèse walked to Athos’s table followed by Father Christophe. “Excuse us, d’Artagnan,” the nurse shook awake the sleeping Musketeer. 

d’Artagnan was stunned as he was awakened abruptly by the nun. He groggily stood and backed away at the unexpected interruption, glancing back at Aramis in horror. “What’s going on?” the Gascon asked the nun.

Sister Thérèse gathered Athos’ hands and folded them together, then placed them on his stomach. The nun stepped back, made the sign of the cross to herself and began to pray. Father Christophe approached the table dressed in his surplice, carrying a vessel containing _Oil of the Infirm_ in preparation of giving the Last Rites. He stood at the head of the table and quietly prayed; the words barely audible, as the Gascon couldn’t understand what was being said.

“Oh God…” Aramis stood, horrified as the priest dipped his fingers in the oil and then made the sign of the cross on Athos’ forehead. The medic’s jaw dropped in shock as he fully understood what was taking place with the priest and his friend. He stole a glance at d’Artagnan, who stood unmoving as he was every bit as shocked at the frightening scene in front of him.

 _“Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misericordium adiuvet te dominus gratia spiritus sancti.”_ The priest dipped his fingers again and laid his hands on Athos’ folded hands. _“Ut a peccatis liberatum te salvet atque propitious allevit.”_

“Amen,” Sister Thérèse whispered. The pair stood quietly praying beside Athos, finishing with the sign of the cross. Sister Thérèse then followed behind Father Christophe to leave once the Last Rites ritual was complete.

Aramis and d’Artagnan started at each other in horrified silence, frozen in place as each were seemingly unable to force their limbs to move. 

Finally, Aramis moved to stand beside where d’Artagnan still stood frozen, stunned from watching Last Rites given to their captain, friend and brother. “But we’re not ready to lose him,” the Gascon choked as tears filled his eyes. “Is he going to die, Aramis? Is Athos going to die?”

Aramis shook his head before falling into the vacant seat beside Athos and collapsing over his friend as the dammed emotions inside of him were released in a flood of tears. “God please, give Athos strength—strength to fight; strength to survive—strength to live.”

Aramis tried hard to keep from falling apart. “Athos gave of himself willingly for the good of his men but… we’re not willing to let him go. Please, let him stay—don’t take him away from us.” Aramis’ breath caught as his chest and throat constricted with emotion, “God, let Athos live!”

“Don’t you leave us Athos,” d’Artagnan wiped the tears from his face. “Don’t you dare leave us!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chest Compressions:**
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> Around 500 AD people realized that the body became cold when lifeless and connected heat with life. Around this same time would-be rescuers would actually whip the victim (flagellation) in an attempt to stimulate response in a lifeless body. These and other methods had been applied for years as documented in Thomas Willis’s reports, such as with Anne Green’s hanging of a baby upside down to resuscitate the infant in 1650. Other methods of revival included physical and tactile stimulation in an attempt to ‘wake up’ the victim by yelling at and slapping the person in the hope of reviving the casualty. 
> 
> Thomas Willis (1621-1675) kept writings of casenotes, giving us a fascinating insight into 17th Century medical practice. Most of Willis' patients came from the villages around Oxford and give us a unique insight into early medical practice, as well as an understanding of 17th Century medicine as a whole. This was a time of revolution in medical and scientific thought. In his notebooks, we see a practitioner early on in his career trying to develop his art, knowledge, and acumen while discovering his vocation in medicine. 
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> **Last Rites ritual and terminology:**
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>  **Surplice:** The surplice is a vestment worn over a cassock by priests and clergy. It is of white linen or cotton fabric, reaching to the knees, with wide or moderately wide sleeves. The surplice belongs to the vestes sacrae (sacred vestments), though it requires no benediction before it is worn.
> 
>  **Oil of the Infirm:** Oil of the Infirm is used in the ritual treatment of the sick and near-death. Anointing of the Sick, also called, _Extreme Unction_ is a sacrament of the Catholic Church given to those who are in danger of death due to sickness or old age. In danger of death, the occasion for the administration of _Viaticum_ is also given in the onset of a medical condition considered to be a possible prelude to death.
> 
> The word viaticum is a Latin word meaning "provisions for a journey," from via, or "way."  
> Latin Translation of Last Rites:
> 
> “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.”  
> Laying on hands—“May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.”
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> **UPDATE ON MONDAY!**


	11. Papa Tréville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My laundress, Estelle, started calling me Papa Tréville after she saw my interaction with you boys,” he huffed with amusement... "I grew to love being called Papa Tréville over the years… and now I cherish the name.”  
> “Of all the titles I’ve earned in my career, Papa Tréville is the one of which I am most proud.”

_“Keep your heads down!” the captain ordered over the crashing explosions. Debris rained down on the men with pieces of rock bouncing off of hands as they covered their heads, causing blood to stream across knuckles and fingers._

_“I have to stop those cannon,” the captain resolved. “I’m going up there; take care of the men, Aramis.”_

_“No! I won’t let you go, it’s too dangerous. Don’t go up there—you’re going to get shot. They’re going to hurt you… please don’t go. Athos, don’t go!”_

Aramis moaned and rolled his head side-to-side…

_“We have to go find the captain, Aramis!” D’Artagnan screamed as he gripped the medic’s shoulders with steely fingers._

_“There he is!” Aramis screamed._

_D’Artagnan ran and gathered the lifeless form of their captain in his arms. He brought his friend in close and cried as he held Athos’ head to his chest. The captain’s limp arms hung loosely, the fingers brushed the grass where d’Artagnan sat absently rocking himself and his armload. “He’s dead… oh God, he’s dead!”_

_“Put him down, d’Artagnan,” Aramis ordered. “I need to check his pulse—put him down!” The medic’s hands were shaking, yet still he couldn’t feel anything under his fingers. “God, he has no pulse… he has no pulse!”_

“No!” Aramis screamed. “Athos… don’t go! Don’t leave us!”

“Aramis!” a gruff voice called. “Aramis, wake up—you’re having a bad dream, son.”

“Minister?” Aramis squeezed his eyes closed, fighting the wave of dizziness that made his head swim. “Oh God, Athos!” The medic jumped up to snake his shaking fingers under the bandaged neck of Athos, trying to reach the artery but having no success. “I can’t check his pulse! Dammit, I shouldn’t have gone to sleep! What if he’s…?”

“Aramis, I just checked his pulse a minute ago and he was fine,” Doctor Jarreau took Athos’ limp wrist and rechecked the pulse and found it thumping steadily under his fingers. “Here, you want to check it for yourself? There is a pulse, Aramis,” the doctor reassured, “he is alive.”

Aramis checked the wrist for a pulse and felt the steady flutter under his fingers. “Thank God,” the medic let out the breath he was holding and a relieved cry at the same time. He closed his eyes and collapsed back into his chair.

“Aramis, are you alright?” Minister Tréville asked with concern.

“Minister, I thought I was back under the…” _Achoo!_ The forceful sneeze doubled the medic over in his chair; as he was about to sit up, he was knocked forward again by another sneeze. “Oh damn…” Aramis groaned as he slumped forward to rest his head on Athos’ arm.

“Son, you’re coming down with a cold, it appears,” Tréville stated with a frown.

“Great, what else can go wrong?” the medic muttered angrily.

“Porthos!” D’Artagnan jumped up in surprise as he saw the large Musketeer stir. “Aramis, he’s waking up!”

Aramis ran to the table where Porthos moaned and mumbled incoherently as he fought to move and then sit up.

“Don’t try to move, Porthos,” the medic soothed. “Just lie still… you’ve been hurt. Porthos, can you hear me?”

“Mmnghh…”

“Porthos, it’s ‘Mis, can you open your eyes?”

The large Musketeer peeled his eyes open and blinked as he tried to focus, but his eyes were glossed over and unseeing. He let his eyes slide closed; waking up left him exhausted. He slowly opened his eyes again as he felt a hand gently cup his chin… but then let them slide closed again.

“Porthos, it’s me,” said the medic. “Can you open your eyes for me again?”

The Musketeer opened his eyes and tried to focus but everything was a blur. He saw a figure in front of him but he couldn’t tell who it was. “Hursss…”

“I know it hurts, brother, but your head was badly injured by falling debris,” Aramis soothed. “Do you remember what happened?”

“Where…?”

“You’re in Carcassonne,” d’Artagnan chimed in. “In the basilica, to be more precise.”

“Where… who…?”

D’Artagnan and Aramis exchanged glances. With the head injury, the men feared the possibility of Porthos experiencing memory loss—at least, temporarily. Yet nothing could prepare them for the moment when Porthos awoke and couldn’t remember who they were.

“Porthos, do you know who I am?” Aramis asked, wincing at his own words.

“Whoo yyoou..?”

“Oh God, no!” D’Artagnan turned in shock to look at Aramis, he covered his mouth with his fist to hold back the sob. His eyes watered as he swallowed back the urge to cry, “Aramis, what do we do?”

Aramis was too stunned to speak and simply shook his head. He was thrust back into medic mode as Porthos began squirming and fighting against the hands holding him down. “Don’t move, Porthos, you’re going to…”

“Sssicckk…” Porthos slurred.

“Turn him, quick!” Aramis yelled as he and the doctor turned Porthos in time for him to empty his stomach of liquidy yellow bile.

“It’s okay,” Aramis whispered. “We’ll get you…”

His words were cut off as Porthos’ eyes rolled to the back of his head and his body went suddenly stiff. The Musketeer’s arms and legs twitched just before his whole body suddenly shook with violent spasms. The large man trembled and jerked beneath strong arms trying to hold him down and protect him from further harm.

“Keep him on his side!” Doctor Emerie yelled. “Hold him down—don’t let him fall from the table.”

Aramis and the doctor held onto the shaking body at the shoulders, while d’Artagnan and Tréville held onto Porthos’ legs and waist. Each of the men were terrified for their friend but held firm, praying the ordeal would soon be over.

“God please, help him!” D’Artagnan cried out as he held the jerking legs down on the table. Just as suddenly as the seizure started, the trembling ended with Porthos’ body going instantly limp.

Turning the large man onto his back, the doctor pressed his fingers against Porthos’ neck in search of a pulse. “He’s got a pulse, thank God… but he’s lost consciousness again.” 

“Damn,” Minister Tréville hung his head, breathing hard from the frightening experience. “What the hell just happened?”

“Porthos suffered a seizure, gentlemen,” the doctor answered the minister’s question. “Remember, he sustained a serious head injury; he will be experiencing effects of that injury as he awakens, so don’t be alarmed. Porthos is bound to experience some confusion, possibly even amnesia—at least initially. This is his first attempt to awaken,” Emerie held up in a calming gesture. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions just yet.”

“That seizure, was it a direct result of the head injury?” Minister Tréville asked.

“Yes, seizures are common among patients with severe head injuries resulting in br…” Doctor Emerie tried to stop himself short, but it was too late.

“Brain injury,” Aramis grimly finished the doctor’s thoughts. “Aw, Porthos…”

“Brain injury?” d’Artagnan gasped with horror. “Oh God…”

“He didn’t know who I was,” Aramis uttered in a whisper. “What if he doesn’t remember? What if he never remembers…?”

“Now, what did I just say about jumping to conclusions, Aramis?” the doctor scolded. “It’s too soon to determine the extent of his head injury and the resulting effects, so please… give it time. His memory loss might simply be temporary, so try not to worry just yet,” the doctor stated calmly. “I should be able to diagnose him more thoroughly the next time he awakens.”

“And when will that be?” d’Artagnan asked, glancing between the doctor and Aramis. “What if he doesn’t remember anything?”

“A commonality of symptoms with patients having head injuries is some memory loss; as well as confusion, headaches and dizziness, and loss of consciousness also quite common. Porthos may experience all or only some of these symptoms, but it is not at all uncommon. I know he’s your friend but please try not to worry. Remember, his injury was serious and it will take time to heal—just give him time.”

“Time,” d’Artagnan began but paused as he felt a tickle in his nose. Turning, he sneezed into the crook of his arm… again… and then again.

“Alright, that’s enough,” the doctor slapped his knee. “I’ve been watching the two of you sneezing and sniffling long enough,” Doctor Emerie pointed his finger at the two men. “It’s obvious you are both coming down with colds and I will not have you around these patients when you’re sick.”

“Doctor, I am _not_ leaving Porthos or Athos!” Aramis protested, shaking his head defiantly.

“Aramis, you’re a medic!” Doctor Emerie reminded with exasperation. “You, of all people, should know the risk you present to Athos, especially with him having a lung injury. Athos’ lung is weak, making it susceptible to infection and illness. If he gets sick, it could easily turn into pneumonia which, in his condition, could very well prove fatal. Is that what you want?”

“No, it’s _not_ what he wants,” Minister Tréville interjected sternly. “It is not what any of us wants, so d’Artagnan and Aramis are leaving. That’s an order, gentlemen,” the minister motioned with his head toward the nave.

“For how long?” D’Artagnan griped, instantly regretting it as he received a steely look from Tréville.

“You should stay away for three or four days, at least,” the doctor advised. “During that time, _if_ you take your prescribed medicinal herbs and tea—and get plenty of rest—you may recover sufficiently to return without being a contagion risk to these wounded men.”

“Don’t worry, Doctor Emerie, I will see to it that they comply with medical orders or they will not be allowed back in here at all,” Tréville stated firmly. The minister met the Musketeer’s surprised looks with hard, resolute eyes. Knowing they had no other choice, the Musketeers both echoed in unison, “yes sir.” 

Aramis and d’Artagnan shared a look of regret, but were resigned to follow orders. They said farewell to Porthos and Athos with just a brief touch to their heads as they walked away and followed Doctor Emerie to the nave. 

“I will escort the men to the Château Comtal,” Mother Superior glared at the Musketeers. “I will make sure they comply with the nurses over there or they will have me to answer to—and then they’ll answer to Minister Tréville.” 

Aramis and d’Artagnan exchanged quick glances. They swallowed hard and groaned, their hearts fell to their feet in dread at the thought of being under the strict supervision of Mother Superior and her nurses.

“Thank you, Mother Superior,” Doctor Emerie nodded with a grin. “Remember boys, if you follow your treatment _properly,_ you may return once you are well enough.”

“Doctor, please, if something goes wrong with either of them…” Aramis pleaded, unable to finish as his voice cracked.

“I will send word immediately,” the doctor assured. “Try not to worry, boys, we’ll take good care of your brothers, I promise you. You just worry about getting better so you can get back in here—they’re both going to need you.”

*****

Minister Tréville looked from Porthos to Athos and shook his head sorrowfully. “My dear boys…”

“There are two of you but only one of me,” the minister glanced between the two men. “You’re closer, Porthos, so I will sit with you first,” he sat beside the Musketeer. “I’m told that you can hear me, though you are unconscious. Perhaps you will hear something that triggers a spark of memories,” the minister reached to take Porthos’ hand in his own as he settled in.

“I’m really not good at this sort of thing, Porthos,” the minister took a deep breath. “I command men, but I’m not so adept at personal relationships. I’m not known for my bedside manner… but I’ll do my best.”

“I missed you—I missed all of you boys,” Tréville sighed heavily. “It was never dull with you four around; you boys kept my job interesting. I honestly don’t know if you four kept me young or if you boys aged me by several years, what with all the worry you put me through. Do you know how many sleepless nights I spent worrying about each of you, at one time or another? Worrying whether you would make it through the night?” Tréville huffed with wonder.

“Do you know how many accident reports I had to fill out on the four of you? You boys certainly made up the bulk of injuries suffered by the regiment—more than all the other men combined!”

“As a commander, as your captain, I was not allowed to show favoritism among the men. While responsible for an entire regiment of Musketeers it was difficult to get to know all of the men on a personal basis. In my career, sometimes I barely learned a man’s name before he was killed. Then I had to write a condolence letter home to a wife or a mother regarding a man I never even knew... what does a captain say? What words of comfort can he offer…?” Tréville shook his head and sighed.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this, Porthos, but soldiering—and commanding men especially—is a lonely job. I never married or had a family; being a soldier was all I ever wanted, from the time I was a boy. I enlisted in the service of the King’s Army first and then I joined the Musketeers, they each became my family.”

“I guess we can fool ourselves with that lie for years—decades even—or perhaps our entire lives, but in the end we are alone. You four boys filled a space in my heart that I never realized was vacant… empty.”

“I thought I could get along in life without a family, but you boys _became_ my family. I’m not a father, but I think you boys gave me a taste of what being a father is like. I know of a father’s love and the worry; the disappointment and the pride; the pain and the joy,” Tréville cleared his throat and sat quietly for a moment, lost in thought.

“You boys are the closest I’ll ever come to having sons—I would proudly call any of you my own. My laundress, Estelle, started calling me Papa Tréville after she saw my interaction with you boys,” he huffed with amusement. “I must admit, at first I was shocked when Estelle called me that and I requested that she stop it immediately—she didn’t listen. I grew to love being called Papa Tréville over the years… and now I cherish the name.”

“Of all the titles I’ve earned in my career, Papa Tréville is the one of which I am most proud.”

*****

“Athos, what can I say as I look at you and see all the many cuts, bruises, and wounds on your body?” Tréville ran his hand along the bandage covering Athos’ broken right arm; he touched the sutured lacerations caused by the jagged metal shards on a good portion of his right side.

“When King Louis offered me the position of Minister of War, he asked me if I had a replacement in mind as captain of the regiment. I told him my answer immediately—there was never any consideration for anyone else _but_ you,” he nodded at the memory. “You were always my first choice for the job. I would never have considered anyone else.”

“I knew from the moment I first met you, Athos, that you were someone special,” he smiled. “I had no idea of your background or your family name or title, until you revealed those personal secrets to me before your commissioning.”

“I never told you how I felt so honored that you would entrust me with your private affairs but it certainly enlightened me to your polished mannerisms, your leadership qualities and the way your carried yourself.”

“From the moment I recommended you to receive a commission as a King’s Musketeer, I’ve never doubted your value to the regiment… or to myself,” he added softly.

“What you did on that hill to save your detachment of men,” he paused as he shook his head. “Athos, _that_ is why I chose you as captain of the Musketeers. A captain must always choose the good of the regiment over his own personal needs.”

“As captain, sometimes you have to make difficult decisions; those decisions may result in the death of men who serve under you,” he let out a long breath. “I can tell you, it’s never easy to lose men under your command but, Athos, in our line of work, it’s inevitable. A good commander learns to deal with loss; a good commander learns to live with loss; a good commander learns _from_ that loss.”

“You have to learn to let go of the pain of their loss—but you never _forget_ the men. Don’t ever forget them, Athos. Always keep the memory of those you’ve lost with you in your heart and they will become a part of you; they will shape you and build you into the kind of commander the regiment needs you to be.”

Minister Tréville paused and then sighed as he reached to gently stroke Athos on the forehead. “Remember their sacrifice, Athos, but don’t make light of your own. There are a lot of people who love you and are very proud of you—not least of whom… is me.”

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final week of the story. Rather than spending too much time dealing with the physical injuries (and illnesses), I will be focusing on the emotional wounds and emotional angst of the boys. With the kind of injuries that Athos and Porthos have sustained, their recovery would be long and difficult… so you will see how I deal with their injuries and move the story along as each day progresses. The second-to-last chapter and the final chapter each will bring the moral of the story and the title of the story together. I think the final chapter is going to be like one you have never read before in fanfiction… and I’m both proud of it and nervous at the same time. Four more days…


	12. Finally Awake!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m right here, Porthos,” Aramis guided his friend’s chin toward where he sat. “Hey there, brother,” his eyes moistened at the recognition he saw in the eyes looking back at him.

“Minister Tréville, you wanted to see me, sir?” Adjutant Minister Laroche asked Tréville.

“Yes, Laroche,” Tréville replied. “Walk with me, I do not wish to talk in front of the patients,” he said as they walked toward the doors of the basilica. “I have a couple of things I want you to do for me,” the minister informed his assistant as they stepped outside.

“Yes sir?”

“First, I need you to find General Turenne and Lieutenant General Créquy; I will meet with them in the château in one hour to discuss moving the army down to Andorra la Vella in pursuit of the Spaniards before they escape across the border. One hour in the château,” Minister Tréville repeated his order with emphasis.

“Understood, sir,” nodded Laroche. “And the other matter, sir?”

Tréville sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face as he stared into the distance. “There were four Musketeers who were sent out on reconnaissance missions, seeking help for the company under the bridge. Two were beheaded, Rousseau and Lefévre; two were sent toward the fortress, Béringer and Michaud, but only Béringer returned,” the minister paused. “There were also two Musketeers who were shot immediately upon arrival at the bridge, Huguet and Auzenne, but their bodies floated downriver and were lost…” 

“Sir?”

“I want their bodies found—all of them!” Tréville ordered sternly. “I want the remains of Rousseau and Lefévre found… including their heads,” he stressed. “I want the river swept, if necessary, until the bodies of Huguet and Auzenne are found.”

“Where are the bodies to be taken, sir?” Laroche inquired.

“The dead are temporarily being placed in a basement room at the château until they can be properly buried,” the minister answered in a low voice. “Please take the remains of the missing Musketeers to the château. Send out as many troops as necessary to find those missing men; I want them brought back here to be buried with their brothers.”

“Yes sir, I’ll get on that right away,” Adjutant Laroche replied solemly.

“One more thing, Laroche,” the minister added. “I want a complete list of the fatalities; I want to know exactly _who_ the regiment has lost and how many. I have just been informed of two more deaths since the collapse—their wounds were too severe,” he sighed heavily. “I need that list… get on it right away, Laroche.”

“Yes sir,” Laroche replied. “Sir, these men, these Musketeers, they still hold a special place in your heart, don’t they?”

Tréville bowed his head for a moment as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was their captain for many years; it was an honor to lead them and serve with them. My regard for the men of the Musketeer regiment does not diminish simply because I have a new title, Laroche,” he pursed his lips. “Those men will always be my family.”

**Château Comtal, Carcassonne:**

“Athos! No, don’t go up there! There’s too many Spaniards… there’s too many! Athos, please…”

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis awoke in a cold sweat at the sound of screaming across the hall. “I need to get in there!”

“You are _not_ going anywhere, young man,” said Sister Marie. “You’re sick and you need to stay in bed.”

“I _will_ stay in bed, Sister, but in d’Artagnan’s room,” Aramis protested as he threw aside the covers on his bed. “He’s having nightmares—it’s that damn, godforsaken bridge!”

“Monsieur!” Sister Marie gasped. “Watch your language, young man,” she scolded.

“Forgive me, Sister, but I don’t give a damn about my language anymore,” Aramis growled. “This cursed place has brought _nothing_ but death and suffering to my brother Musketeers and I will not leave my youngest brother to endure his nightmares alone,” he rose to his feet. “Now, if you will please…” 

_Achoo!_ _Achoo!_ _Achoooo!_

“Dammit to hell!” Aramis cursed as he snatched the proffered handkerchief and blew his nose. “Mmnn,” he moaned. “I wish I could _breathe!”_ he sniffed, wiping at his nose.

“I think it’s time for your medicine again, young man,” Sister Marie looked at the table clock in the room. “I will prepare some more tea for you and your young friend; I’ll bring it to you both across the hall.”

“Thank you, Sister,” Aramis smiled gratefully. He walked across the hall to d’Artagnan’s room where the young Gascon was still asleep but caught in the clutches of a bad dream. He tossed and turned, mumbling incoherently between occasional screams.

“No! Athos…”

“Shh…” Aramis soothed as he pulled back the covers then sat beside the Gascon. He placed his hand comfortingly on d’Artagnan’s forehead, trying to gently rouse him. “Athos is fine; he’s going to be okay.”

d’Artagnan awoke but immediately doubled over as a coughing fit wracked his body. “Oh God, ‘Mis,” d’Artagnan moaned. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a team of horses.”

“That bad, huh?” Aramis laughed and then leaned sideways as he too was taken by a coughing fit.

“We really do make quite a pair, don’t we?” d’Artagnan chuckled. _Achoo… achoo!_

“Uggnnh…” Aramis moaned.

“I have hot soup with some licorice and elderberry tea,” Sister Marie announced as she entered the room. “The herbal tea will certainly help you feel better; and the soup will keep your strength up. So, you boys _will_ eat!”

“Yes, Sister,” the Musketeers echoed with resignation.

The men ate quietly for a while, each lost in their own thoughts until d’Artagnan finally broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to leave your own room and bed to come in here, Aramis,” the Gascon said as he swallowed a spoonful of soup. “I’m sorry I disturbed you…”

“You didn’t disturb me, d’Artagnan,” the medic sighed. “We both know why I’m in here.”

“Yes, and I don’t need a babysitter,” the Gascon snapped angrily.

“Will you stop saying that, dammit!” Aramis growled in return. “I’m in here because I know what you were dreaming about… because I’m having the same _bloody_ dreams!”

The Gascon remained quiet as he stared down at his hands.

“You dreamed that we were _at_ the bridge when Athos prepared to run up that hill,” Aramis surmised. “Am I right?” he asked, though not expecting an answer. “You try to stop Athos before he makes a run for it… but he goes running off anyway.”

“How do you know this?” d’Artagnan asked, stunned that Aramis just described his dream nearly perfectly.

“Because I’ve had the same damn dream,” Aramis muttered. “I think subconsciously we are both feeling guilty for not being with our brothers when they were under such heavy attack,” he sighed. “We both wish to Heaven that we could have arrived from Castelnaudary sooner and somehow prevented that bridge from collapsing—though we both know in hindsight there is _nothing_ that we could have done differently to prevent the collapse.”

“So why the dreams, then?”

“Because our minds are so haunted by the images of what we found once we arrived at the site, and we’ve both been so wracked with guilt for not being there _with_ our brothers,” Aramis stopped as his throat seemed to constrict, cutting off his air.

“Aramis?” D’Artagnan anxiously grabbed the medic’s shoulder and shook, “are you okay?”

“Damn,” Aramis whispered at last—much to the relief of the Gascon. “I can’t help but wish that we were there; we should have been there _with_ Porthos and Athos! Porthos shouldn’t have had to deal alone with Athos leaving on that desperate run,” he lamented. “I can’t imagine Porthos’ fear—not knowing whether he’d see the captain again—on top of not knowing whether he would survive the bombardment of the bridge.”

“I know what you mean, ‘Mis,” the Gascon whispered as he nodded in agreement, his own feelings mirrored that of his friend. “I keep wishing that we could have been there to comfort them, somehow.” D’Artagnan wiped away a tear spilling from his eye.

“When you think about it,” Aramis fisted the blanket, crunching the corner into a crumpled ball. “In the end, they were alone,” the medic sniffled as tears rolled down his cheeks. “We found Porthos …”

“Porthos wasn’t _really_ alone, ‘Mis.” D’Artagnan put a comforting hand on top of the fist of blanket. “He was with…”

“Yes, he was with our brothers,” Aramis snapped, “but it wasn’t…” he stopped short.

“… it wasn’t _us.”_ D’Artagnan finished Aramis’ train of thought correctly, much to the medic’s shame. “I understand what you mean and it’s nothing to be ashamed of, Aramis. Porthos could have died out there… and we weren’t with him.”

“And Athos _was_ alone,” Aramis blinked back the tears threatening to spill. “Athos could have died on that hill… all alone… and we weren’t there!” At last the dam broke as the sobs escaped in a rush. Both men held onto each other and cried until they were out of breath and out of tears, left completely worn out. They fell asleep with d’Artagnan’s head resting in the crook of Aramis’ neck, and their arms wrapped around each other in slumbering comfort.

**Three Days Later:**

“I am _not_ staying here another day!” Aramis growled defiantly. “I want to know how Porthos and Athos are doing and we can’t get any information on their condition over here, so we’re going over there!”

“We’re feeling a lot better now, thanks to how well you’ve taken care of us,” d’Artagnan interjected while glaring at Aramis.

“Yes we are feeling better and I’m sure we no longer pose a risk to the men,” Aramis added as he slid on his boots. “I need to know how my brothers are doing; I’m not staying here any longer. Let’s go, d’Artagnan,” the medic called over his shoulder as he walked out.

**Basilique Saint-Nazaire, Carcassonne:**

Aramis and d’Artagnan entered the front doors of the old basilica and rushed through the nave to the left aisle containing the rows of cots of wounded Musketeers. Several of the men were wrapped in cloth bandages stained with green poultice covering their wounds. Some men were awake and were talking quietly, while others were still unconscious with serious wounds.

The two made their way to the end where their captain and Porthos were lying side by side on cots. Minister Tréville sat next to Athos, grasping a limp hand in his own while talking softly near his left ear.

Aramis and d’Artagnan exchanged worried glances. They were in the château for three days but it appeared that the condition of their brothers had changed little.

“Minister, how are they?” asked d’Artagnan. “How are Athos and Porthos?”

“Who let you out, were you released by Mother Superior?” Minister Tréville narrowed his eyes as he looked between the two men.

“We’re fine, Minister,” Aramis nodded reassuringly. “They took very good care of us and we both feel a lot better; we couldn’t stay over there any longer without knowing how they were doing, sir.”

“Alright,” the minister relented, “but the first sneeze or sniffle I hear from either of you and you’re _both_ out—do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir,” the answered in unison, swallowing hard. “Um, sir, how are they doing?” d’Artagnan asked again.

“They both have had periods of sporadic consciousness but neither has stayed awake long enough to really determine their wellbeing,” Tréville sounded rather disheartened.

“Has Porthos shown any signs of recognition to anyone—any signs of his memory returning?” Aramis inquired.

“Yes, actually,” Tréville responded more favorably. “He awoke two days ago not having a clue who I was,” he winced at the memory, “or even who _he_ was. Porthos didn’t even know his own name.”

“Oh God, no.” D’Artagnan shared a discouraged glance with Aramis.

“Yesterday, however, he knew who I was—though he kept calling me captain—and he remembered his own name,” the minister nodded. “He also remembered that something terrible happened at the bridge.”

“Damn.” Aramis let out a groan and a relieved breath at the same time. “Well, at least he’s getting his memory back, little by little. I’ll sit with him a while to see if I can jog more of his memory.” The medic sat down beside Porthos and took his hand in his own as he softly whispered in his ear. Though the large man remained unconscious, the medic hoped to spark his memory.

“D’Artagnan, if you would sit with Athos,” Tréville said as he readied to leave. “I have some important matters to tend to.”

“Yes sir, I’ll gladly sit with him for a while,” the Gascon sat in the vacated seat beside his captain and took his hand in his own as he began to talk. “Hello, Athos, I was away for a few days but I’m back now,” he squeezed the limp hand in his own.

“Athos?” D’Artagnan sat bolt upright as he felt a light squeeze to his hand in return. “Athos, can you hear me, it’s d’Artagnan? Open your eyes for me, brother.”

“Mmnnh…” Athos gave a throaty moan.

“That’s right Athos, come on, wake up for me!” D’Artagnan encouraged while smoothing his hand over Athos’ forehead, gently moving aside the stray strands of hair.

“Is Athos waking up?” Aramis called from beside Porthos’ bed.

“Well, it seemed like he was but…” D’Artagnan paused as he softly tapped the cheeks of his captain, trying to rouse him. “Come on, Athos, wake up for me.”

“Keep talking to him,” Aramis instructed. “He’s probably right on the edge of consciousness. See if you can nudge him over to our side, huh,” he smiled.

“I’m trying,” d’Artagnan replied with a frown, “but I’m getting nothing now.”

“‘Missss…” a soft whisper called.

“Porthos?” Aramis jerked back around to the sound of his large friend stirring. “Porthos, can you hear me?”

“Yesss…”

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan inquired with excitement. “Is Porthos waking up?”

“I think so… Porthos, open your eyes for me, brother,” Aramis tapped his cheeks lightly. “Come on, open those big brown eyes for me.”

Porthos' eyes fluttered, then slid open for a moment as he looked around, searching for something.

“I’m right here, Porthos,” Aramis guided his friend’s chin toward where he sat. “Hey there, brother,” his eyes moistened at the recognition he saw in the eyes looking back at him. “Porthos, do you know who I am?”

Porthos closed his eyes with the hint of a smile on his face. “René,” he huffed.

“Yes, now I _know_ he’s got his wits about him,” Aramis called over his shoulder to the Gascon. “He’s making jokes; he knows I don’t like to be called René.”

“Y’r name…” Porthos whispered, “‘sn’t it, mmn…?” the large man closed his eyes and fell back to sleep.

“Not for a long time, mon ami,” the medic squeezed Porthos’ hand as he blinked back the tears. “I’m so glad you’re back, my brother.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan joined Doctor Emerie who walked out of earshot of the patients. “This is most encouraging, gentlemen,” he smiled.

“What do you mean, doctor?” d’Artagnan asked the physician to elaborate.

“It certainly appears that Porthos has not suffered any _extensive_ brain injury as we continue seeing evidence of his memory returning slowly but sufficiently,” the doctor explained. “And he’s making jokes as well—a most encouraging sign.” 

“What about all the head wounds we took care of when he was brought in?” the Gascon asked with concern.

“The most serious type of skull fracture is the depressed fracture—which is when the broken bone fragments press inward on the brain—the single depressed fracture Porthos had was above his ear,” the doctor explained with a nod. “We took care of that in surgery and it appears to be healing quite well. His other fractures were hairline cracks in the skull—which alone are manageable if the cracks are not injured further. With plenty of rest _and_ time, Porthos should suffer no long-term effects from the head injury.”

“Oh, thank God,” Aramis and d’Artagnan breathed a collective sigh. “Thank God… thank God.”

**Next Day:**

“Athos!” Porthos called out in a panic. “Athos, don’ go…”

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” Aramis placed a reassuring hand on Porthos’ forehead. “Athos is right here beside us… he’s over there,” he turned in his chair to allow his friend to see the cot next to him.

“What’s wrong wit’ him?” Porthos asked as he furrowed his brow, trying to remember.

“He was hurt badly,” Aramis answered without going into specifics. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I ‘member ‘splotions…” Porthos scrunched his eyes closed as he dredged up the memories. “I ‘member the bridge crumbling. Athos, I need to talk to him!”

“Porthos, I don’t think you’re quite ready to get up,” Aramis protested as he tried to hold his large friend down on the bed.

“Lemme go, ‘Mis,” Porthos slapped away the hands holding him down. “I need to talk to ‘im… maybe I can reach ‘im.”

“Careful,” Aramis warned as Porthos tried sitting up. “D’Artagnan, can you help me sit him up and move him over there?”

The Gascon was right beside Porthos in a flash, helping Aramis lift their large friend into a sitting position. They paused, allowing their friend to acclimate before swinging his large legs over the side and turning him to face Athos.

The sight of Athos’ bruised, cut, and bandaged body made Porthos’ breath catch. “Bloody hell… wha’ happ’nd to ‘im?”

“Long story, my friend,” d’Artagnan replied with a pat to the back. “We’ll talk about it later, huh?”

“Are you sure you want to try standing, Porthos?” the medic asked with hesitation. He wasn’t sure that this was the best idea for his injured friend. “Your ribs were broken, you shouldn’t be moving about just yet.”

“I’m juss… goin’ to the chair, ‘Mis,” Porthos scowled. “I can move five feet to the chair… ‘m not ‘n invalid.”

“No, you’re not that, my friend,” Aramis nodded and smiled at his friend’s stubbornness. “D’Artagnan when you lift him, be mindful of his shoulder and his broken arm,” he reminded.

Together, Aramis and d’Artagnan carefully moved the large Musketeer to the chair beside Athos’ cot and helped ease him into the seat.

Porthos reached out with his left hand to take Athos’ left hand and squeezed gently. He scanned over the many injuries, frowning at the broken right arm wrapped in a sling; he scowled at the captain’s bandaged head and the various cuts covering his pale skin. “Damn, wha’ ‘appened to you, Athos?” he asked sadly. “Why won’t he wake up?”

“I don’t know, Porthos,” Aramis replied softly.

“You ran up ‘at hill to save us,” Porthos whispered to Athos. “You did ‘at… you saved us, Captain. Wait…” the large Musketeer paused and closed his eyes.

“Porthos?” Aramis squeezed his friend’s shoulder gently. “Are you okay?”

Porthos nodded and continued talking to the captain. “I told you not to go,” his eyes grew wide as he remembered the moment. “I told you… told you ‘at what you were ‘bout to do was suicide,” he nodded. “I remember!”

Aramis and d’Artagnan looked at each other with apprehension as they listened to what transpired under the bridge while they were away.

“You told me… you told me,” Porthos closed his eyes, concentrating while trying to bring back the broken memories.

“Porthos, maybe you can do this later?” Aramis suggested with a soft squeeze to the shoulder again.

“No,” the large Musketeer shook his head. “Athos, you told me… _‘no, staying here and doing nothing is suicide.’”_ Porthos’ eyes opened wide as the memories flooded back in a rush of emotion. His breaths quickened and his heart raced, “damn…”

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan asked anxiously. “Porthos…?”

Aramis held up his hand to stop d’Artagnan’s questions. “What did you say to Athos?” the medic prodded, attempting to move his friend along with remembering.

“I told ‘im… I told ‘im,” he paused, “‘you come back to us, Athos,’” his voice cracked.

“What did Athos say?” d’Artagnan asked, now intrigued by the events that unfolded.

“He told me that I had command of the men and he said, _‘you stay alive… all of you, stay alive,’”_ he paused as he wiped his eyes. “Then he went to check on the group of men ahead of me, said somethin’ to them before runnin’ up the hill and disappearin’ into the trees.”

“Oh, Porthos…” Aramis whispered as he scrubbed a trembling hand down his face.

D’Artagnan blinked back the stinging tears threatening to fall, “we should have been there…”

Just then, a young soldier approached Aramis, out of breath. “Have you seen Minister Tréville or Adjutant Laroche?”

“No, why?” Aramis asked with sudden alarm.

“Minister Tréville sent out a search party to find the bodies of the missing men,” the soldier reported. “They’ve all been found—even the two that went down the river!”

“Bloody hell,” Porthos growled at the news.

Aramis and d’Artagnan looked at each other with disgust at the careless announcement in front of the captain, even if he was unconscious—or so they thought.

“Bo-bodies…?” a soft voice whispered.

“Athos!” the stunned group collectively exclaimed.

“My men… dead… I f-failed…” the captain faltered as a tear slipped from his eye. His head lolled to the side, the lone tear slowly rolled down his cheek as his body went limp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Licorice Root:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This root has medicinal properties and is used in the treatment of a variety of diseases including peptic ulcer, eczema, liver problems and the common cold. Licorice is an expectorant that is useful for relieving coughs as it helps clear lung congestion. In addition, it has a potent antiviral property. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Elderberry:**
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>  
> 
> Elderberry is an ancient herb that was used as a cure-all. It was used to treat wounds and fevers; and was effective in the treatment of colds and flu. Besides its antiviral properties, elderberry can also improve cold and flu symptoms by its antibacterial & antioxidant properties. Elderberry helps reduce the symptoms of colds and flu by lessening congestion and could shorten the duration of colds and flu by about 3 days.


	13. The Weight of Their Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can’t carry them around with you on your shoulders forever,” Aramis whispered. “The weight of that burden would eventually bring you to your knees."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is Armistice Day, also known as Remembrance Day, or here in the U.S. as Veteran’s Day. As a Veteran, I salute the _real_ heroes, the Veterans who have served their country, no matter what country that may be. If you come across a Veteran today take the time to say, “Thank You!”
> 
> *****
> 
> Porthos and Athos suffered extreme injuries; and with such injuries, their recovery would be long and difficult. For the sake of the story, I will be doing time jumps in this chapter to keep the story rolling along and flowing into the finale. The moral of the story all boils down to the last two chapters—everything will tie together and you’ll see why I chose the title!! Two more days and we’re done.

“Athos! Athos, no… no, you didn’t fail!” Aramis tried to explain but the captain was not responding. “Athos, wake up!” The medic fell into his chair and covered his face with his hands as his elbows were planted on his knees. “I cannot believe this…” his muffled voice said under the hands.

“Athos, you saved us,” Porthos put a hand on his friend’s chest. “You said you were goin’ to quiet the cannon… and you did,” he swallowed the lump in his throat. “You saved us, Athos.”

“Athos, you didn’t fail,” d’Artagnan whispered in Athos’ ear. “You did your job as captain—you saved your men.”

Athos remained still; his mind and body retreated to the safety of darkness where there was no pain. Awareness and consciousness brought physical agony and emotional pain—sometimes it was better to not feel anything at all.

“Dammit to hell, man!” Aramis snapped, slapping his knees in anger. He stood and turned to the young soldier, “Outside, now!” the medic ordered.

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan called after the medic frantically.

“Maybe you should go after ‘im,” Porthos suggested. “Make sure ‘e doesn’t kill the man.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan said as he was already running off after the pair.

“What in the name of _Heaven_ is wrong with you, soldier?” Aramis let loose once they were outside, safely away from the wounded men. “What were you _thinking?”_ God d…” Aramis clenched his fists as he clenched his teeth, trying hard to watch his mouth on the steps of the church.

“What…?”

“Your report about finding the dead _bodies_ of Musketeers in front of the captain and the other wounded men, that’s what!” Aramis seethed.  
“Aramis…” the Gascon whispered a warning, as he placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Aramis, what is going on?” Minister Tréville asked as he came upon the furious Musketeer uncharacteristically yelling at a young soldier.

“Why don’t you ask him, sir,” Aramis glared at the soldier. “I can’t handle this right now; I’ll probably say something that I’ll later regret,” he breathed heavily as rage coursed through his veins. “I’ll let you handle him, Minister; I need to get back in there.” Aramis returned to Athos’ bedside, his face red with anger.

“Aramis, Athos will be okay,” d’Artagnan said, attempting to calm his friend as he followed him inside.

The medic pulled up a chair and sat down heavily, sighing as he shook his head. He stared quietly at Athos, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair as his chin rested on his fist. “He didn’t need to hear that,” the medic softly said to himself.

“Aramis, the next time Athos wakes up we can talk to him,” d’Artagnan said, putting a comforting hand on the medic’s shoulder.

“You’re worried ‘bout ‘im, ‘Mis,” Porthos sighed heavily. “But Athos is strong; he needs us to be strong too.”

“He thinks…” Aramis paused to calm himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “He thinks he failed the men,” he said softly. “After everything he did on that hill, sacrificing himself…”

“He did what any good commander would have done, Aramis,” Minister Tréville said as he stood at the foot of the captain’s cot. “I would expect nothing less of Athos.”

“But sir…” d’Artagnan began to protest but was interrupted.

“Hear me out, gentlemen,” Tréville put up his hand to stop the dispute. “You have to understand this from Athos’ perspective,” the minister explained. “As captain, he feels responsible—and he _is_ responsible—for every single life under his command.”

“The captain is the one who has to write the letters home, telling wives or mothers of their dead husband or son. He is the one who has to fill out the reports with the details of what happened, explaining to the king why his regiment is now a certain number of men short,” the minister glanced at each of the men to drive the point home.

“As captain, he will experience regret, a deep sense of loss, and most likely some guilt over the deaths of his men. Athos has no valid reason to feel guilty; he did everything he could to protect the men. However, the remorse he feels is real. I _know_ how he feels, or how he _will_ be feeling, because I’ve been there myself,” Tréville stared at the captain lying motionless. 

“Sir…?” Aramis whispered, but the minister held up his hand once again.

“It never gets any easier; no matter how many times we lose men under our command, it’s always painful. Each loss is felt by the captain personally,” the minister rubbed his chin for a moment. “Gentlemen, no matter how you may try to comfort him and share with him in his grief, his grieving is deeply personal—just understand that now.”

“Well, what can we do to help him then?” d’Artagnan asked, suddenly feeling helpless.

“Just give him time,” Tréville looked to each man staring back at him intently. “Give him time to grieve and mourn. Comfort him and be there for him but do not crowd him or mother him. You all know how Athos is… just give him his space.”

“You said to comfort him without crowding him,” d’Artagnan said with confusion. “How do we comfort him but still give him his space?”

“By just _being_ there for him,” Tréville replied. “Sit with Athos quietly—you don’t have to say anything—let him do the talking. For the time being, all you need to do is just listen.”

“And wha’ if ‘e doesn’t want to talk?”

“Then just sit quietly, supporting him yet without saying a word,” Tréville answered. “You’ll be surprised at how much more receptive he’ll be to your quiet support than if you try forcing him to open up. If you do that, he’s going to clam up and withdraw inside himself… and probably turn to other means of comfort,” Tréville frowned.

“Wine,” the group surmised together.

Minister Tréville huffed but said nothing for a long moment. “Just give him time, boys.”

“I heard… what… said…” Athos whispered to the shock of the group. Everyone turned to see Athos watching them, though his lids were drooping. “Tired…” he said as he let his eyes close again. 

“No… Athos?” Aramis then remembered what the minister had just said about not forcing Athos to talk. He sighed as he took the captain’s hand and leaned to whisper in his good ear, “go ahead and sleep, my friend. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

**Days Later:**

“Aramis, why don’t you go to sleep on a bed, rather than a damn chair,” Athos grumbled loudly. “You’d be more comfortable…”

“All the beds are taken,” Aramis grinned. “Also, there’s no need for you to yell,” he reminded. “I can hear you just fine. Besides, normal conversation echoes loudly in here, your shouting will only serve to wake the dead.”

“I can’t tell that I’m…” he paused when he realized that he was shouting again. “I can’t tell that I’m shouting when I can hardly hear my own voice! Dammit, when will this _incessant_ ringing in my right ear ever stop?” he shouted again.

“Let me take a look at that ear,” Doctor Jarreau said at hearing the angry complaint. The doctor removed the bandage then lifted the lantern to shine the light inside of the captain’s ear. “Ah, I see the membrane is beginning to heal nicely—that is very good! Your eardrum should heal in about two weeks,” he smiled. “As for your hearing, well, that should clear up anywhere from a few days to about a week… or thereabouts,” he added cautiously.

“Thereabouts?” Athos repeated with a shout.

“If your hearing has not fully returned in about two weeks, the damage may prove to be permanent,” the doctor stated truthfully. “However, it could return so gradually you may not even notice it; one day you will suddenly realize that you can hear… and without that incessant ringing.”

“Patience, my dear captain,” Aramis smiled.

“Great,” Athos ignored Aramis’ cheerful optimism. “How long until my broken bones heal—arm, foot, ribs…?”

“About six weeks for each,” the doctor answered. “So until then, you’ll need help with a few things—unless you learn to get by with one good arm and one good leg.”

“I’ll help him as much as he needs, or as much as he’s willing to accept,” Aramis offered with a smile.

“Since you’re here, doctor,” d’Artagnan piped in quickly. “I know you’re not Porthos’ doctor, but how long does it take for a dislocated shoulder and broken arm to heal?”

“With the extent of his shoulder and arm injury, it could take anywhere from six to twelve weeks for the arm to fully heal. He will also need some assistance for a while,” the doctor smiled as he noticed the scowl on the large Musketeer’s face at the suggestion of needing help.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to help them whether they ask for it or not—whether they like it or not.” Aramis glared intently at each of his stubborn friends.

**One Week Later:**

“They both are becoming rather proficient at eating with their left hands,” d’Artagnan said, grinning at Aramis. “They don’t wear so much of their food as they did before.”

“Indeed not, d’Artagnan, but it might be a good idea to keep employing the napkins as bibs,” the medic snickered.

“I’m happy we can be a source of amusement for the two of you,” Athos growled as he fumbled with his knife, trying to cut his venison by himself with one hand.

“His hearing _is_ improving; it appears he overheard our conversation, d’Artagnan,” Aramis bantered as he ignored the angry stares from Athos. “However, he is still shouting.”

“I think that may be because he’s a little angry,” d’Artagnan quipped, keeping an eye on Athos for anything that might be thrown at him.

“Again, I think you are correct,” Aramis glanced sideways at d’Artagnan while not taking his eyes off of the fuming captain. “If he would simply allow me to cut that meat for him, he wouldn’t get so frustrated. I don’t know how to cut meat one-handed, do you?” he asked the younger Musketeer who simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Alright, that’s it!” Athos slammed his knife down.

“Do you give up?” Aramis asked as he tried to keep a straight face. “Are you going to let me cut that meat for you, or are you going to continue being stubborn?”

“Fine,” Athos relented. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the smirk he _knew_ was on the medic’s face.

“There, all done,” Aramis announced. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” the medic stood to whisper in his friend’s ear, “please let me help you; that’s why I’m here.” Aramis touched forehead to forehead with Athos, “please, don’t push me away.” 

Aramis pulled back to look Athos in the eye; their eyes locked. There was no laughter and no poking fun but a sincere expression of friendship, along with the desire to help that friend who was too stubborn and too proud to ask for it.

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan asked with his eyebrows raised. “Will you also let me help you cut your meat?”

Porthos answered the Gascon by forcibly stabbing the slab of meat with his fork then picking up the entire piece and taking large bites from it as it dangled from the fork.

“Okay, I guess not,” d’Artagnan said, rolling his eyes. “Stubborn as ever,” he muttered under his breath.

**A Few Days Later:**

“I’m goin’ crazy in here,” Porthos growled. “I need a damn change of scenery,” he cursed. “I think I’ve go’ the pattern of the stained glass memorized.”

“Alright, I’ll go see if the doctor says if it’s okay for you to go walking about outside for a while,” Aramis agreed. “How does that sound, huh?” the medic asked as he stole a sideways glance at Athos as he walked by.

“Sounds good, I’d love to go outside,” Porthos nodded enthusiastically. “I think I’ve forgotten what the sun looks like,” he turned to Athos and watched him with concern. “How ‘bout you come outside and get some sun too, eh? A breath of fresh air might do you some good.”

Athos shook his head then rolled onto his side, closed his eyes and tried to go to sleep.

Porthos and d’Artagnan looked at each other, their eyes filled with worry as Athos appeared to withdraw more every day. Their concern grew as each day when asked to join in the activities, Athos turned away in rejection as he rolled to his side and went to sleep.

On one such day after Athos turned down yet another offer to go outside, a frustrated Aramis leaned close to admonish his friend. “If you would unlock yourself from this self-imposed prison, you might realize the healing benefits of going outside in the fresh air and soaking up the sunshine. Maybe you prefer to hide within these cold and impersonal walls of stone.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan helped Porthos to his feet, supporting him until he steadied; then together they walked to front doors, leaving Athos behind. Porthos stepped into the sunshine then tilted his face toward the sun, soaking in the warmth as a smile exposed his bright white teeth.

Aramis and d’Artagnan smiled as they watched their content friend bask in the sunshine, though the Gascon’s smile quickly turned into a frown as he glanced back at the church. 

“We can’t force him to come out, d’Artagnan,” Aramis shook his head in resignation. “I don’t know what more I can do to reach him.”

“Is he trying to punish himself or something?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Punish himself,” Aramis repeated with contemplation. “I think he’s feeling self-reproach and is seeking absolution, though he may not realize it. As captain, he feels responsible for the deaths of the men; the guilt and the remorse he’s feeling is so strong it’s eating away at his heart. All he is feeling right now is pain—and it’s not physical pain that I’m referring to.”

“What can we do to help him, ‘Mis?”

“To start, we need to get him out of that place,” Aramis waved his hand in the direction of the church. “Even for just a little while,” he released a deep breath. “I’ll keep asking him… maybe one of these days, he’ll actually agree.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” d’Artagnan grumbled.

“I want to go to the wall today,” Porthos shifted his weight as he leaned on Aramis. The large Musketeer walked between his two friends as they slowly made their way toward the ancient stone wall. “I want to look down there and see what’s left of…”

“The bridge?” Aramis and d’Artagnan exclaimed in unison.

“Porthos, I don’t think that’s such a good…”

D’Artagnan was cut off by an angry Porthos who wanted no more coddling. “Dammit, stop mothering me—both of you! I’m not fragile; I won’t break into pieces if I see that bloody bridge!”

“Alright, Porthos… alright,” Aramis relented and reluctantly agreed. _Perhaps if Porthos sees the remnants of the bridge and sees the destruction for himself, it will help him come to terms with what Athos did and why,_ Aramis thought. “Are you sure you’re up to this?” 

“Yes, let’s go.”

“Okay,” Aramis sighed as he traded an apprehensive glance with d’Artagnan. The men were grateful the basilica was located near the western wall overlooking L’Aude River and was not far to walk. However, once they arrived at the wall, Porthos was so exhausted he had barely the strength left to peer through the rectangular opening to view the river valley below.

Porthos scanned the valley to the north, looking for the forked junction of the river and the Pont Vieux. An audible gasp escaped, followed by a choked sob, as the large man saw for the first time the destruction and the debris field on the grassy island where the bridge once stood.

“Merde!” Porthos whispered. “Damn, the entire section of bridge on the grassy island is… is gone!” The Musketeer scanned the hillside, spotting a few cannon glinting in the sunlight. He could just make out the piles of dead Spanish soldiers now lining the area before the trees.

“Where will they be buried?” d’Artagnan asked as he followed Porthos’ gaze to the stacked bodies.

“Probably right there on the hillside,” Aramis answered. “I doubt General Turenne will allocate any manpower to dispose of their bodies properly—not after what they did down there.”

“What they did… what they did,” Porthos’ breathing quickened as he stared at the ruins of the bridge. “They killed our brothers; they nearly killed our cap’n…”

“… and you,” d’Artagnan interjected softly.

“I never thought I could feel so much hate…” 

The men stood with Porthos, quietly waiting for their friend to continue.

“After you two left to go downriver, the night was fairly quiet,” Porthos finally began. “There was one attempt to sneak up on us and attack during the night, but we caught ‘em and no one was hurt. Earlier, Athos said somethin’ ‘bout _Dante’s Inferno,_ but I didn’t know what he was talkin’ about. Once mornin’ came,” he shuddered, “the skies opened up and it rained lead and metal; I think I understood him then.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan exchanged concerned glances behind their friend.

“They were aimin’ to kill us; there was no mercy,” his jaw clenched hard as his facial muscles rippled in his cheeks. “When the bridge started to collapse, I thought, ‘this is it—we’re finished.’” he whispered. “Then I thought of you…” his voice cracked.

“You thought of us?” Aramis asked with surprise.

“I thought… I thought you both made ‘at trip downriver only to come back to find us all dead.” A strangled cry escaped as a tear slipped from his eye and rolled down his cheek.

“Porthos, but we didn’t come back to find only destruction—we found life!” Aramis’s pained voice cracked as the horrific memories flooded back; the gripping fear of seeing only piles of stone while wondering where their brothers were.

“Porthos, the army arrived and saved you,” d’Artagnan added softly.

“No.” Porthos turned away from the wall; tracks of wet tears stained his face. “Not soon enough,” he muttered as he hobbled away.

Aramis and d’Artagnan stared at each other in shock. “Dear God…” the medic uttered to himself. “How do we help them?”

 **Days Later:**

“Winter is around the corner so we’re not going to have too many more days like today. You’re going outside to get some fresh air, whether you like it or not,” Aramis insisted. “Help me get him up on his feet,” he said to Porthos and d’Artagnan. 

“I’m not a damn invalid,” Athos growled. “I can stand up on my own.”

“Hmm, that sounds strangely familiar,” Aramis grinned as he looked at Porthos. “I’m sure you can stand on your own,” he said to Athos. “But I don’t want you hurting those ribs and potentially re-damaging your lung; the regiment needs their leader back, Captain.”

Athos huffed as he shook his head, but said nothing. He allowed himself to be lifted to a standing position without resisting or even caring; he mechanically followed Aramis’ lead toward the front of the basilica on their way to the outdoors. Porthos and d’Artagnan followed quietly along, just behind the duo.

“I’ll take him from here,” Aramis instructed his two friends with a silent shake of the head, ordering them to give Athos space.

Once outside, the bright sunshine nearly blinded Athos, whose eyes had become accustomed to the dimmer sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows. The captain paused a moment to catch his breath, the short walk already taking its toll on his weakened body.

“There’s a bench right over there, by the trees,” Aramis said, pointing. The medic led Athos to the bench then helped him sit, taking a seat beside him.

Athos leaned into Aramis’ shoulder as he tried to breathe. He took deep breaths as his tightened chest heaved from the exertion and the pain. Beads of sweat popped across his brow then rolled slowly down his face. “Damn…” Athos gasped, trying to control his breathing.

Aramis quickly pulled out his handkerchief to wipe away the drops of sweat before they reached Athos’ eyes. “We really should get you out more often, mon ami, you’re out of shape,” he joked, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere of the moment. Aramis watched his friend with growing concern as he noticed the captain panting and struggling to breathe.

“I can’t seem to… I can’t catch… my breath,” Athos panted.

“Athos,” the medic cupped his friend’s chin, turning it toward him. “Take a deep breath in,” he waited for Athos to comply, “now let it out, slowly. Breathe in… now let it out,” Aramis coached Athos on his breathing until it was finally under control. The medic took his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from the captain’s face once again. “There, do you feel better now?”

Athos nodded but said nothing. He tilted his face to the sun, feeling its warmth. _I missed the warmth of the sun; I missed the heat on my face._

“I haven’t been outside since…” Athos went quiet, retreating back inside his mind.

“I know,” Aramis replied with understanding. “You had to come outside sometime, Athos. There had to be a first step taken sometime… and today was that day.”

The two men sat quietly for an indeterminate amount of time, simply enjoying the warmth of the sun and the fresh air in each other’s company.

“How do I deal with this, Aramis?” Athos whispered so low Aramis barely heard. “How do I forget?”

“Forget?” Aramis repeated. “You don’t forget, Athos, you just learn to move on somehow. You can’t carry them around with you on your shoulders forever,” Aramis whispered. “The weight of that burden would eventually bring you to your knees. I can’t tell you how to deal with your grief, Captain, but you have to let go of the guilt. Their death is not your fault; let go of the guilt, Athos, but hang on to their memory. They will live on in your memory—and their memory will always be with you.”

“I don’t know if I can do that, Aramis,” Athos said, shaking his head as his eyes watered. “I don’t know if I can let go…”

“Yes you can, Athos.” Aramis rested his hand on the captain’s leg and squeezed gently. “You are stronger than you think. You are hurting now… but you _will_ get through this. You will make it through this; you will make it past this… and I will be there every step of the way to help you get there.”

“I won’t be a burden to you… or the other two,” Athos whispered resolutely.

“Listen, just because you’re the captain now doesn’t mean that our motto no longer applies, Athos.” Aramis smiled as he placed his hand on Athos’ hand, “All for one…”

“… and one for all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said above, today is Armistice Day, or Veteran’s Day here in the U.S.. This day was set aside in commemoration of the armistice signed between the Allies of WWI and Geramany, taking effect on the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month,” in 1918. May God Bless ALL the Veterans of all Military Branches who have served from countries around the world! Thank You!


	14. Your Greatest Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Those twelve survivors, and the children yet to be born of them, are your reason _why,_ son. Those future generations—they are your _greatest legacy.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank You, Mountain Cat, for the idea for the beginning… it fit in perfectly!

YOUR GREATEST LEGACY

“What’s going to happen to us, Captain?” d’Artagnan asked. “I mean, once everyone is healed and is fit for travel, are we being sent back to Castelnaudary to rejoin the rest of the regiment?”

“Yeah, wha’ are they goin’ to do with us?” Porthos asked the captain, who wasn’t listening.

“That’s a good question, d’Artagnan,” Aramis answered as he lowered his voice and looked toward the nave to see if it was clear to speak. “When d’Artagnan and I were at the château, I overheard Minister Tréville and Adjutant Laroche speaking about deploying the troops to Andora la Vella…”

“That’s right near the border of Spain,” Porthos whispered. “So, we’re goin’ after them buggers, eh?” he growled. “‘Bout damn time… if I had my way, I’d kill every last one of ‘em!”

“No one is killing anyone!” Athos snapped.

“Why else are goin’ after ‘em then?” Porthos asked the captain, but he got no reply.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged worried glances. Athos seemed not only distracted, but also troubled by something. He was quiet—too quiet—as he sat on his cot staring not _at_ the wall, but _through_ it. His brow was furrowed in deep thought, bothered by something that was making him cantankerous.

“Is General Turenne going to send the Musketeers down to la Vella with the army too?” d’Artagnan asked. “Why else were we sitting at Castelnaudary with them in the first place if we’re not going to be attached with his army?”

“We never should have been attached to General Turenne in the first place…” Aramis began to rant but was cut off by Athos.

“We go wherever the king sends us,” Athos growled. “Or have you forgotten that?”

“If we hadn’t been attached to General Turenne, we never would have gotten caught up in the siege…” the irascible medic stopped short.

“Why didn’t de Créquy send his own men to Carcassonne?” d’Artagnan asked, now that the opportunity presented itself. “Why were the Musketeers sent?”

“That was my doing…” Athos whispered and then gasped at the realization that everything which transpired at the bridge happened because he volunteered his men to go to Carcassonne. All the events have now come full circle as Athos returned to that moment in Lieutenant General de Créquy’s office, _"Sir, I can take a company of Musketeers to Carcassonne to determine the status of Minister Tréville and General de Turenne, if you would have us go,”_ he volunteered. He had volunteered the men; if he had just remained quiet…

“Athos?” Aramis asked anxiously. “What’s wrong?”

“I shouldn’t have volunteered,” Athos said distantly, almost absently. “I shouldn’t have volunteered so _many_ to go to Carcassonne. If fewer had gone, at least, there would be fewer deaths. This is my fault… my God, what have I done?”

“Athos, this is _not_ your fault!” D’Artagnan sat upright in his chair beside the cot.

Porthos swung his legs over the side of his cot and sat forward, “don’t you _dare_ blame yourself for this mess, Captain!” the large Musketeer snarled. “Them damn Spaniards are to blame for this,” he waved a hand over himself and then toward Athos and the other cots holding wounded Musketeers.

“How can you blame yourself, when all you were doing was your duty?” Aramis reminded.

“I think Minister Tréville made a grave mistake choosing me as the captain,” Athos blurted.

“What the hell are you talkin’ ‘bout, Athos?” Porthos brazenly asked.

“I’m going to resign my commission as captain of the Musketeers,” Athos suddenly announced. 

“What!?” the Musketeers gasped in shock.

“The _hell_ you are!” Porthos growled.

“I can’t lead the men…”

“So you’ll just quit?” Porthos asked, completely bewildered. “Just like that, eh? Rubbish, ‘at’s not the same man that looked me in the eye before he ran up ‘at hill. You knew what you might be facin’ but you went anyway—you were resolute and determined to save the men. Now you want to quit?”

“What about the men?” Aramis was indignant and didn’t care if he was out of line. “Have you thought about them?” 

“Of course, I’ve thought about them!” Athos replied sharply.

“Before you ran up that hill,” d’Artagnan chimed in, “you were determined to save the men—even at the cost of your own life. Your duty to them was priority; and now you’re running away?”

“The men are better off without me…”

“Captain!” Minister Tréville’s booming voice called from the pillared aisle. He had listened to the conversation from around the corner and had heard enough. “Grab your crutch; we’re going for a walk.”

Athos hung his head and sighed dejectedly. Without a glance at his three friends, the captain balanced himself on his crutch and hobbled after Minister Tréville who waited for the captain outside. 

“I heard what you said in there,” Tréville said after they had walked some distance away from the basilica. “I will not accept your resignation—not under these circumstances—and neither will the king.”

“Sir, I am not the man who should lead as captain of this regiment,” Athos hissed.

“Yes, you are quite correct, Athos,” Tréville said, nodding. “You are _not_ the man who should lead the musketeers; the man standing before me is not the man I chose as captain of the King’s Musketeers. This is not the gallant commander who ran up that hill to save his men…”

“Maybe I’m not the man you thought…”

“The hell you’re not!” Tréville countered angrily. “Didn’t you teach d’Artagnan to lead with his head and not his heart? Athos, this is your heart talking; this is the pain and the guilt making the decision to leave,” he said, pointing to Athos’ heart. 

“You know full well,” the minister said, pointing to the captain’s head and tapped, “you could not have done differently to prevent this. However, your actions did prevent a _complete_ slaughter of the men in what could have been one of the worst disasters in Musketeer history—surpassing even Savoy.”

Athos visibly flinched at the mention of Savoy. His mind instantly turned to his brother and his heart ached—how could Aramis have possibly dealt with being a survivor of another such disaster? With everyone but the medic and d’Artagnan gone, it would have soon destroyed the very essence of Aramis until the identity of the man—his spirit and his soul—would have dissolved, never to recover. 

Aramis had asked, _“What about the men?”_ Athos sighed. Aramis was right, what about the men? What would the men think of the captain who ran away? Would they ever be able to utter his name again without feeling disgust or—worse yet—shame that, at one time, they actually believed in him? Athos shuddered at the thought. 

Minister Tréville observed Athos, watching him as the emotions displayed plainly on his face and transformed him from despondent to ashamed; from despaired to resigned.

“How do I move forward, Minister?” Athos whispered softly.

“By facing the harsh realities and dealing with them head-on, son,” Tréville squeezed Athos on the shoulder. “You step into the wind, even if that wind is blowing against you and attempts to knock you down—you walk ahead into it regardless. Come on, there’s something I need to show you,” Tréville motioned with his head to the north.

“Where are we going?” Athos asked as they walked on the curving, dusty road toward the eastern gate, Porte Narbonnaise.

“Into the wind, Athos,” Minister Tréville answered succinctly as he led Athos toward the gate.

Athos stopped in his tracks as they arrived at the massive towers of the eastern gate. “We’re leaving the cité?” he asked. “Where are you taking me?”

“Athos, do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, sir,” Athos answered truthfully, though confused.

“Good, it’s not far.” Tréville motioned with his head to follow him. “It’s only a few more steps this way.”

Athos reluctantly followed Tréville through the triple-tower arched gateway and beyond the inner wall of the fortress. The duo then passed through the aisle to the arched tunnel of the outer wall until they were outside the fortress.

The minister and captain turned to the right and then followed a path to where the Cimetière de la Cité was situated just beyond the outer wall. Once again, Athos froze in his tracks as he laid eyes on the crosses in the hillside cemetery.

“Athos, come,” Tréville said, reaching out his arm. “There is something I need to show you.”

Athos paled as realization dawned. His heart dropped to his feet; his body suddenly felt numb. Bonelessly, as his legs were no longer able to support his weight, the captain folded and collapsed. Minister Tréville’s quickness in catching the captain is all that prevented him from hitting the ground.

“Sir, I can’t go in there,” Athos protested. The captain’s eyes were wide with dread and fear. He no longer wished to know how many dead there were but feared learning the truth.

Once he knew the number of fatalities, the reality and the severity of the slaughter would be inescapable. He wanted to turn back and run away but it was too late. Here he stood overlooking a sea of crosses—yet he refused to count how many. What was it that Aramis said when he took him outside for the first time since his wounding?

_“There had to be a first step taken sometime… and today was that day.”_

“God, I can’t do this…”

“Captain, these are _your_ men; it is time you learned who rests here.”

Slowly, Athos straightened and squared his shoulders. He took a deep shuddering breath then nodded, “I’m ready.”

**Cimetière de la Cité:**

Athos thought that he was ready, but nothing could have prepared him for the rows of freshly-dug graves that greeted his eyes. The captain gasped as air rushed from his lungs, just the same as if he had received a heavy blow to the chest.

“God, so many… so many,” Athos stammered at the view in front of him. “H-how m-many?”

“Sixteen men, Captain,” Tréville answered softly. “I have the list of names here,” he pulled out a piece of folded paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to Athos without saying a word.

Athos read the list, his eyes scanned over the names again and again until his hand finally crunched the paper into a crumpled ball.

“Athos, I’m going to give you some time alone with your men,” Tréville whispered as he laid a gentle hand on the captain’s shoulder. “I’ll be just up the hill when you’re ready.”

Tréville walked away, giving the captain a moment to deal with his grief alone. Athos stood frozen, unable to move anything but his eyes as they slowly scanned across the fresh mounds of dirt in neat rows. At the head of each grave was a small wooden cross which marked where a Musketeer rested. Underneath the sixteen mounds of dirt rested a man he had picked to ride with him to Carcassonne; a man he had ordered to take cover under the bridge; a man he had ordered to stay safe and keep his head down.

The captain counted the crosses over and over; every time he counted, he came up to the same number. _Sixteen graves, how could this be? How could this happen?_

“We came to Carcassonne to see Minister Tréville and General de Turenne, how could this…” he counted the graves again.

“Sixteen out of thirty…” Athos’ breath caught as a sob constricted in his throat and his vision greyed. The captain let his crutch fall just before he limply crumpled to the ground in a heap. In a sudden flood of emotion, the constricting sobs rushed from him with an uncontrollable release of tears.

“No,” Athos sobbed as his entire body was wracked with rippling tremors from the severity of emotion he could no longer hold back or control. “God why… why…why?”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” Athos pulled his legs underneath him then leaned forward to rest his head on his left arm and continued to cry. “Guilbeaux was just a boy,” he sobbed as he looked at the cross beside him.

“You wanted to be a Musketeer, just like your papa. You trusted me to keep you safe and I failed you,” the captain whispered. “I failed all of you.”

“Oh God, I should have disabled those cannon sooner; I should have gone up that hill sooner!” Athos sat upright with his left hand resting on his knee as his head hung low. “I failed my men…”

“You didn’t fail them, Athos,” Tréville’s voice corrected from behind. “You did everything you could to keep your company alive—everything humanly possible. Athos, sometimes things happen that we cannot control, no matter how hard we try.”

“I should have done _more!”_

“You ran up that hill to single-handedly take out three, almost four, enemy cannon and over a dozen enemy soldiers.” Tréville reminded Athos, though he knew the captain was well aware of what he did and didn’t need reminding. 

“It was a damn heroic act, executed by a captain trying to save his company of men from certain destruction. You couldn’t have saved them all, Athos,” the minister’s voice lowered as he placed his hand comfortingly on the captain’s shoulder. “But you did save twelve… and that is twelve more than there would have been otherwise.”

“I should have saved more,” Athos groaned, not giving any credence to what Tréville had just said. 

“Son, you saved _twelve_ men,” he repeated with emphasis. “Do you understand, Athos? You save twelve men who would have died otherwise if you had not disabled those cannon.”

“It’s not enough,” Athos whispered as he hung his head low. 

“It’s never enough when you are captain,” Tréville squeezed the hand still resting on the grieving man’s shoulder. “As captain, you did what you had to do to save your men—but you are only _one_ man, Athos. Twelve men under the bridge saw you run up that hill so they could live; _you_ helped them to survive. Without your bold and daring plan, _no one_ would have survived, including Porthos and yourself.”

“What about the two under the bridge that I _didn’t_ save?” Athos asked angrily. “What about the other fourteen that I didn’t save, Minister?” Athos glanced back at his former captain before his eyes once again drifted to the graves of his lost Musketeers. “I sent them under that bridge; I sent them on those missions… I sent them to their deaths.” 

Once again, Athos fell apart as he broke down and sobbed. He pounded his fist against his knee in frustration at the tears he couldn’t stop. Tréville kept his comforting hand on Athos’ shoulder but remained silent, consoling a broken heart with quiet sympathy and the gentle touch of his hand. 

Athos mourned the sixteen lives lost; the brothers who would never return to the garrison. He grieved for the sixteen chairs that would be empty in the mess hall; and for the sixteen empty hooks for cloaks, hats and personal effects in the storeroom. He thought of the sixteen horses that would be returning to Paris without their riders.

These were his men. As captain, he was responsible for them; yet sixteen of them were now gone. “How do I explain their loss to their wives and mothers?” Athos dried his eyes.

“The burden of command is heavy, Athos, but you learn how to deal with it,” Minister Tréville replied. “You don’t explain to the family _how_ their loved one died; but that they died while faithfully serving their king and country. You don’t go into details, Athos.”

“I should have died with those men,” Athos berated himself.

“You almost did, Athos,” Tréville reminded. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Why would I be spared but not those sixteen men?” Athos ignored the minister’s question. “Some of them had wives and children,” he paused. “God could have taken me and spared them—spared their loved ones of the pain. I have no one…”

“That is _not_ true, son,” Tréville countered as he squeezed his shoulder again. “You have your three brothers,” he reminded. “They love you as though you were their own flesh and blood. Do you really think your death would not have been deeply mourned by those who love you, Athos?”

Athos closed his eyes as he thought of the pain his death would have caused his three friends—his three brothers.

“And what of the regiment, Athos?” Tréville asked emphatically. “Do the men not deserve to have their captain? Do you not think that they also would mourn your loss?” the minister paused, allowing for his questions to sink in.

“Is the regiment _not_ your family, Captain?”

“They deserve better than me…”

“Do not devalue their loyalty in you… their respect of you, Captain.” Tréville sighed as he scrubbed a hand down his face. He started up at the sky and watched as the afternoon clouds slowly floated by while he gathered his thoughts. “Do I not matter to you?”

“What…?” Athos was caught off-guard at the unexpected question.

“I would have mourned your death as though I had lost my own son,” Tréville admitted in a low voice as he stared into the distance.

Athos looked up with watering eyes, “I… I don’t… I didn’t,” the captain sighed and gave up on his fragmented reply. “I don’t deserve you either.”

“I do not give of my affection freely, Athos.” Tréville took a deep breath before continuing, “and certainly not to just anyone. I have long thought of you as a son—you are the closest I’ll ever come to having a son,” he whispered. “You are more than deserving to be loved by your regiment, your three brothers… and by me.”

“But why…”

“God spared you for a reason, Athos,” Tréville pressed forward. “Don’t try to figure out what that reason is—just accept it and learn to live with it. Every single man who survived the destruction of that bridge owes his life to you and your determination to save them,” he paused. “Maybe those twelve men _are_ your reason why.”

“Sir?”

“Twelve men will return to Paris that wouldn’t have otherwise,” Tréville explained. “Twelve men will live to fight another day; and the regiment will have their captain fighting right along beside them and _with_ them. Never underestimate what it means to the men and their morale to have their captain lead them.” 

Athos looked across the graves of the men who would _not_ be returning to Paris. “God…” he sighed.

“Honor their memory, Athos.” Tréville followed the captain’s gaze to the rows of crosses foretelling the next question on Athos’ mind.

“How?”

"By _living,”_ the minister said simply. “You live for those who love you; you live for those who look up to you for leadership; you _connect_ with those twelve men who lived, though the bridge collapsed. Take a special interest in their future, Athos,” Tréville advised. “After all, they wouldn’t have a future if not for you.”

“Minister, that sounds rather pompous…”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Sir, I…”

“The _survivors_ will be your legacy, Captain Athos. Future generations will be born because of your sacrifice on that hill. There are children yet to be born who will one day hear of your gallant—and desperate—charge up that hill to take out three enemy cannon and a dozen enemy soldiers…”

“Minister, please…” Athos groaned.

“Men will hold their children and grandchildren in their lap as they tell the heroic story of when the captain saved their life, one exceptional day so long ago.”

“These children—that never would have been born—will one day grow up to become scientists, doctors who mend broken bodies, teachers, mothers and fathers, soldiers for France, and even future Musketeers.”

Athos wiped the tears spilling from his eyes and shook his head.

“Those twelve survivors, and the children yet to be born of them, are your reason _why,_ son. Those future generations—they are your _greatest legacy.”_

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really wraps up where I was going with this story. I could picture Minister Tréville talking to Athos from his heart in such a manner, at such a heart-wrenching time as this—no other occasion would call for such a speech. I imagine that Athos was at the lowest he may have ever felt in his life—grieving for the loss of all those men, while believing that he should have died in their stead; only Tréville could have pulled Athos from the depths of despair.  
> As much as Athos loves his three brothers, they could not relate with the captain’s position and his feelings of responsibility… only Tréville would truly understand.
> 
> I think that last desperate morning at the bridge would always serve as a special bond between Porthos and Athos; I can also envision that the final look exchanged between the two friends, just before the captain ran up that hill, would forever be burned in Porthos’s memory. Aramis and d’Artagnan would share the experience of the bridge, because they were there, but I think Athos would be forever grateful that his two friends were _not_ there to experience the collapse. Interestingly, however, Athos was not there for the collapse either, but was on his own mission up on the hill—so technically, Porthos is the only one of the four who experienced the collapse… not that it would matter. I really don’t think they would talk about that experience much—I think conversation about the bridge would be happenstance and rare… and there would be no comparisons of who did what—ever!
> 
> Lastly, the fifteen men who survived the Pont Vieux attack would forever share a special bond of experience that none of the others in the Musketeer regiment would share—despite even their wartime experience together—that bridge would be unique to just those fifteen men. I don’t think it would be something they would ever, ever forget. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Tomorrow, the Memorial Service for the Lost Sixteen…**


	15. Honoring Brave Musketeers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We will mourn their loss, we will cry—and have cried—for the pain that their loss has created; but allow me to pass along some very wise advice given to me,” he paused. “Do not carry the weight of their loss on your shoulders but honor their memory by _living.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sad ending! Thank you all for your wonderful support of this story. Thank you, Mountain Cat, for the idea of the Patron Saints for the medals!!
> 
> I must make note that a military Memorial Service in real life would _never_ be combined with an Awards Ceremony... but I wanted this last chapter to be a celebration of the living along with a remembrance for the dead. I think the spirits of the 16 were in attendance and smiling with pride for their brothers!

HONORING BRAVE MUSKETEERS

**As we honor the dead, let us remember the living.  
Zane Buzby**

*****

“Are you ready for the service today?” Aramis asked Athos.

There was no reply from the captain as he sat on the edge of his cot staring down at his hands. He sat wringing his hands in an almost nervous manner, anxious about the upcoming memorial service.

“Athos, are you okay?” Aramis asked as he placed his hand softly on the captain’s shoulder.

The touch startled Athos, causing him to flinch and suddenly jump to his feet. He stood clenching his hands in angry fists as his eyes darted back and forth around the room.

“Hey, Athos,” Aramis stepped in front of Athos’ line of vision but refrained from touching the captain. “Athos, it’s okay,” he soothed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Athos huffed angrily as he sat back down on the cot. “All we’ve done is _talk,_ Aramis,” he growled. “We’ve been stuck in this place for… how many weeks now?” the captain asked, exasperated. “I don’t even know the date; I’ve lost all track of time in here,” he complained. “I’ve lost track of what’s going on _out there!”_ he waved his hand in the direction of the door. “Where is my regiment, where are the men? I want to get out of here… I want to go home!” Athos stood again and headed toward the nave.

“Whoa there, cap’n,” Porthos stopped Athos by blocking his path. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, we have a service to attend in a bit, ‘member?”

“How could I forget, Porthos?” he snapped. “God, I wish we never came here; I wish we never laid eyes on that damn bridge!”

Aramis watched with concern as the captain clenched and unclenched his fists, as though controlling a stirring rage within himself. _We need to get this service over with and put this place far behind us, before it destroys us from the inside out._

D’Artagnan guided the restless captain once again back to his cot. “Take a deep breath and relax,” he advised. “We’re going to get through this.”

“What do I say?” Athos whispered after a moment.

“Say ‘bout what, Athos?” Porthos inquired.

“The eulogy, for the service,” the captain clarified. “What do I say? What could I _possibly_ say that would sound remotely appropriate for this whole damn fiasco?” he scrubbed a shaking hand over his face. 

“Athos…” Aramis began but was interrupted.

“What could I say that would be _fitting_ as final words, given the circumstances?” Athos asked, not expecting a reply. “Do I thank them for doing their duty as Musketeers, though they still died _needlessly_ under a damn bridge?”

“Athos, we’ve been through this already,” Aramis warned cautiously. “The service will be soon, let’s not get into that discussion now please, captain.”

“I am ready to go back to Paris,” d’Artagnan said, quickly changing the subject. “Do you think Minister Tréville will allow us to go home after the service? I mean, not _right after_ the service, but soon?”

“Yes,” a voice answered from the edge of the nave. Minister Tréville approached the men and nodded. “Yes, I think you boys have earned the right to go home.”

*****

**Château Comtal, Carcassonne:**

“General Turenne has taken the majority of the army south to Andorra la Vella in pursuit of the Spaniards as they head to the border. However, Lieutenant General de Créquy and his battalion have been detached and will remain here, guarding Carcassonne and the roads between the border and Castelnaudary. They will be present for the memorial service,” Minister Tréville briefed Captain Athos.

“Thank you, sir,” Athos nodded with appreciation.

“Are you ready, Musketeers?” Tréville asked the company of fifteen Musketeers, led by Captain Athos de la Fère.

“Yes sir!” the Musketeers shouted as they stood proudly behind their captain. Due to efforts of some highly motivated sisters of Basilique Saint-Nazaire, with the cooperation of Minister Tréville, the Musketeers had new uniforms—complete with new doublets and new blue cloaks distinguishing them as King’s Musketeers. Most of the men’s old uniforms were badly damaged and stained from the debris of the bridge, making the new issues very welcome.

The captain and the men insisted on attaching their old pauldrons on the new doublets, as most bore the scars of that fateful day under the bridge. The captain’s was especially scarred; the hard leather now cut and pierced by the same metal shards that also riddled his fragile body on the hillside. The gold fleur-de-lis on the captain’s pauldron was marred and chipped with the sword tip now missing, broken by a jagged shard of metal. Athos determined to wear the damaged pauldron to serve as a constant reminder of the men he lost _and_ saved at Pont Vieux. 

Just under half of the company of Musketeers was all that remained of the thirty-one men, including the captain, who rode from Castelnaudary to Carcassonne. Remaining were just fifteen men that marched together from the Château Comtal to Porte Narbonnaise. 

The march was slow going as Captain Athos still required the use of his crutch, making such exertion quite tiring. His broken arm remained wrapped but was no longer supported in a sling. The captain was happy, at least, to have his hearing back to normal—without the incessant ringing.

The King’s Musketeers stood proud at the towered gate, though many were nervous about leaving the walled city where they might catch a glimpse of the bridge. Though adorned in new uniforms, the men still bore the scars and injuries of what happened outside the fortress walls. The physical injuries would one day heal but the scars—both physical and emotional—would forever leave their mark and serve as a reminder of the Pont Vieux.

The Musketeers stood at Porte Narbonnaise, waiting for Minister Tréville’s prompt to proceed them forward, on to Cimetière de la Cité where they would pay final respects to their fallen brothers—the fallen sixteen Musketeers.

Finally, Minister Tréville continued on alone through the gate; allowing the captain the honor of leading his company of Musketeers to the cemetery unaccompanied. At last, Captain Athos and his band of Musketeers marched through the eastern gate of the fortress toward the final resting place of their fallen brothers.

 **“Bataillon! ... attention!”** ordered Lieutenant General de Créquy in a loud call. Hundreds of French soldiers lining the path to the cemetery snapped to attention, followed by the sound of hundreds of boots clicking together smartly in one fluid motion.

 **“Présentez… armes!”** ordered the general. Again, as one, the soldiers presented their muskets diagonally across their chests in salute, as the officers presented their swords vertically.

Captain Athos’ breath caught in his throat at the sight before him, causing him to hesitate in astonishment at the archway. At Porthos’ soft touch to his shoulder, the captain rallied and led his Musketeers between the rows of soldiers standing at attention, lining the path all the way to the cemetery.

Athos tried not to look at the soldiers but kept his eyes focused ahead on Minister Tréville as he waited for the Musketeers to take their place at the gravesite. Arriving at the cemetery, as the company rounded the path, Athos stopped short as an unexpected sight once again took his breath away and caused him to pause. 

“My God,” Captain Athos uttered as he stood momentarily frozen, holding up the company of men behind him. Standing at attention beside the small cemetery was the entire Musketeer regiment, wearing their formal blue cloaks, after having arrived from Castelnaudary to attend the special memorial service honoring their fallen brothers.

The sight of his men standing ready to pay tribute to their fellow Musketeers made Athos’ heart pound in his chest with pride but shadowed with overwhelming sadness. The captain faltered as his legs weakened from the rush of emotion; he suddenly felt dizzy and swayed on his feet as his vision greyed.

Aramis and d’Artagnan rushed forward to stand shoulder to shoulder against Athos as support, holding the captain steady and upright between them until the moment of weakness had passed. Athos smiled and nodded with appreciation at his friends before hobbling on to his place beside the minister.

“Are you alright?” Minister Tréville asked as he took in the pale face of the captain, now beaded with droplets of sweat. He watched with concern as the captain’s chest heaved from the exertion of the long walk, frowning as he fought to control his breathing.

Athos nodded, not trusting his voice should he try to speak. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard as emotion bubbled from his chest at the grand display honoring his men. He stood at attention beside Minister Tréville as the men gathered behind them in formation of two rows.

As the large group stood waiting, the sound of trumpets suddenly blared, announcing the arrival of the king. A sea of colorful banners snapping in the breeze brightened the somber ceremony; swallowtail banners of blue with golden fleur-de-lis and banners with the Royal Crest of the House of Bourbon went before King Louis XIII in a glorious and regal display.

Aramis, d’Artagnan and Porthos exchanged stunned glances at the regal announcement; Athos turned in shock to look at Minister Tréville, who forced back a grin as he tried maintaining his soldierly demeanor. As one, the entire group bowed in formal respect as Louis, King of France arrived.

The company of Musketeers was not informed of the king’s attendance to the memorial service; they merely expected a quick and simple service conducted by Minister Tréville.

The formality of the service with the arrival of the king, Lieutenant General de Créquy and his battalion of soldiers, as well as the entire Musketeer regiment, far exceeded the expectation of Captain Athos and his men. Once again, Athos found himself swallowing a lump of emotion rising from his chest.

King Louis XIII stood overlooking the crowd, all still bent at the waist in a reverent bow before their king. He was quite impressed at the magnificent sight; his loyal subjects who gathered to honor the fallen of _his_ Musketeer regiment. He smiled as he raised his hands, prompting the crowd to regain their stand at attention.

“We are here to pay homage to my fallen sixteen brave Musketeers who died while trapped by enemy troops underneath Le Pont Vieux, just beyond where we are gathered. As your king, I am proud to represent you and I am proud of my faithful, loyal, and very brave soldiers—the elite Musketeers.” 

“These Musketeers,” the king waved his hand the length of the Musketeer regiment standing before him, “ensure my safety on a daily basis and I could not properly function without them. I do not give them enough of my appreciation for their service to their country and to their king. Today, as we gather to remember the fallen, while honoring the survivors, I send out to you my sincere gratitude for your service and your sacrifice.”

“Captain Athos de la Fère, report front and center,” King Louis commanded.

Athos glanced questioningly at Minister Tréville, who smiled and gave a nod of affirmation. The captain hobbled toward the king leaning heavily on his crutch, grateful he had a means of support to keep him upright. His heart pounded in his chest from nervous apprehension at being recognized by the king for something he saw as only an act of desperation.

“Athos, for your brave and selfless act to save the lives of your company of Musketeers by disabling three enemy cannon and killing over a dozen enemy soldiers, I, King Louis XIII, do hereby award you, Captain Athos de la Fère, the distinguished _Médaille d’honneur pour acte de courage et de dévouement_ for your bravery and conspicuous valor on the field of battle. Captain Athos, you displayed selfless gallantry and were successful in saving the lives of twelve of your men at great cost to yourself.”

The king placed a sash around Athos’ shoulder and brought it diagonally across his chest; in not wanting to damage the new leather doublet, the king pinned the medal to the sash. “Congratulations Captain, well done, my faithful Musketeer,” the king said, smiling. “However, I am not finished just yet.” His smile grew as he took a second medal from the assistant’s hands.

“For your injuries sustained in the course of official duty in the service of France, I, King Louis XIII, do hereby award you, Captain Athos de le Fère, the _Croix de St. Denis._ Well done, Captain,” the king said as he pinned the second medal to Athos’ sash.

Athos bowed in humble respect to his king, “Thank you, Your Majesty. It is indeed an honor to receive these awards from you, Sire.” Athos stayed bowed until the king nodded, allowing him to rise. The captain then returned to his place in front of the company of Musketeers.

“Minister Tréville, if you would come forward and present your awards,” King Louis called.

Minister Tréville stepped forward and then turned to face the company. “Musketeers Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Porthos, front and center,” he ordered.

The three Musketeers were stunned, exchanging silent glances with wide eyes of surprise. They swallowed hard before stepping forward to stand before Minister Tréville.

“Aramis and d’Artagnan, for your meritorious and selfless act of bravery in going downriver to retrieve the army in Castelnaudary, you risked great danger and potential death in order to save the stranded company of Musketeers,” Tréville stated as he picked up the first award.

“Because of your bold and daring act, twelve men survived with the arrival of Lieutenant General de Créquy’s army. You are hereby awarded the _Saint Genevieve Médaillon of Valeur.”_ Minister Tréville first put the medallion around Aramis’ neck, and then placed the second around d’Artagnan’s neck, who bowed his head slightly as he received the award.

“Congratulations, gentlemen,” Tréville said, shaking the hands of the two Musketeers. “Well done.”

“Thank you, sir,” Aramis and d’Artagnan replied together. They stood in place as they waited for the minister to present Porthos his award.

“Porthos du Vallon, for your brave and selfless act in protecting your fellow Musketeers as the bridge collapsed, at great cost to yourself, you are hereby awarded the _Saint-Georges Médaillon pour Bravoure,”_ the minister said, putting the medallion around Pothos’ neck as he bowed low to receive it. 

“Thank you, sir.” Porthos smiled as he shook Minister Treville’s hand.

“In addition, Porthos du Vallon, for your injuries sustained in the course of official duty in the service of France, you are hereby awarded the _Croix de St. Denis._ Congratulations,” Minister Tréville said as he pinned the award to his blue cloak. “Well done, Porthos, I’m proud of you, son,” he whispered as he clapped the large Musketeer on the shoulder.

“Thank you, sir.” Porthos forced down the rising emotion and blinked back tears threatening to spill—he never expected this.

“Maintain your position here a moment, gentlemen,” Minister Tréville ordered. The minister stood in front of the wounded company of Musketeers as an assistant with a tray full of medals appeared.

“Each and every one of you were wounded while trapped under the Pont Vieux while fighting the enemy. Your courage and strength under fire has not gone unnoticed; I personally want to say thank you and job well done. For wounds received in the service of France, you are hereby awarded the _Croix de St. Denis._ Congratulations, Musketeers.”

Minister Tréville proceeded to pin the award to each Musketeer’s blue cloak; he took his time as he shook each man’s hand while saying words of heartfelt gratitude to everyone. “Well done, gentlemen,” the minister said as the Musketeers were finished receiving their awards. 

“Return to your posts, Musketeers,” Tréville ordered Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan before turning to address the company of Musketeers one final time.

“This part of the service was to honor the living, those who survived a senseless and atrocious act committed by the enemy. On behalf of Louis XIII, King of France; General Turenne and myself, we extend to you our gratitude for your bravery and courage when facing insurmountable odds and potential defeat. Each and every one of you has performed your duty bravely and in so doing, you have brought great honor to yourselves, your regiment, your country, and your king,” the minister stated proudly.

“We will now remember and honor those whom we have lost—the sixteen brave Musketeers, who have been laid to rest in this hallowed ground. Captain Athos de la Fère will pay tribute and remember the brave souls we honor here today. Captain,” the minister waited for Athos to slowly hobble back to the front of the company, before standing aside to allow the captain front and center.

The captain stood before the men bearing the scars from the wounds he received in his daring charge up the hill. Ragged lines of red stood out against pale skin where the shards of metal tore into the captain’s body; and he leaned heavily on his wooden crutch as his broken foot remained wrapped. But it was his downcast, haggard countenance that was most telling of the grief he felt and carried for men he lost but had tried so hard to save.

“Nothing that I say here today can truly or properly express what I feel regarding these sixteen fine soldiers; these brave and courageous Musketeers,” Athos said.

“Some of the men I knew for years, while others for just a short time, but all of them served in this regiment honorably and with great distinction. I am very proud of every single one of these men who served—and are now serving—in this regiment,” he spoke to not only the wounded remnant but to the main body of Musketeers in the back.

“I am proud to be the captain of the greatest regiment of elite soldiers in service to the king…”

“Here, here,” said the chipper voice of King Louis, who bore a grin spreading across his face from ear to ear at the compliment.

Athos couldn’t help but smile at the king. Turning his attention back to the regiment, “The loss of these sixteen men will be deeply felt in the hearts of every single Musketeer standing here. It hurts,” the captain paused to clear his throat. “They were our friends and confidants; they were our fellow Musketeers and fellow soldiers; they were our fellow countrymen… they were our brothers.”

“We will mourn their loss, we will cry—and have cried—for the pain that their loss has created; but allow me to pass along some very wise advice given to me,” he paused. “Do not carry the weight of their loss on your shoulders but honor their memory by _living,”_ Athos said as his voice quivered and his eyes watered. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath before continuing.

“These sixteen men would be the first to tell us to not quit or give up on life but to go on living—for yourselves _and_ for them.”

“I will conclude with these last few words of a poem, which I found most applicable."

“When you walk through the storm

hold your head up high

and don’t be afraid of the dark.

At the end of the storm is a golden sky

and the sweet silver song of the lark.

Walk on, through the wind.

Walk on, through the rain.

Though your dreams be tossed and blown,

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart

and you’ll never walk alone.

You’ll never walk alone.”

Athos’ voice cracked just before a sob escaped and held-back tears spilled from his eyes. He stood clenching his fists tightly, deliberately digging his fingernails into his palms to force control of his emotions. He breathed deeply as he wiped the sweat from his face and the tears from his eyes.

“Athos?” Tréville called out with concern, ready to take over if the captain couldn’t continue.

Athos held up his hand to the minister and shook his head, “I’m alright,” he said. He bowed his head as he took another deep breath and let it out slowly as he blinked away the tears. 

Through glistening eyes, he watched his three best friends doing their best to hold themselves together as they struggled emotionally. The three brothers each felt grief and sorrow for the loss of the sixteen men; but moreso, they felt despair for the captain as he personally struggled to deal with this terrible loss. 

The four looked at each other and the grief disappeared for a moment, replaced with a silent exchange of reassurance and comfort for their captain. Finally, the three gave Athos a resolute nod of support to continue.

Athos took another deep breath. “We will now have our _Final Roll Call_ as we honor and remember these sixteen brave Musketeers.

Auzenne  
Baraque  
Béringer  
Chaussee  
de la Fontaine  
Deschamps  
Félix  
Guilbeaux  
Huguet  
Lefévre  
Levéque  
Michaud  
Normandeau  
Philippe  
Rousseau  
St. Vincent

“May the Lord bless thee, and keep thee; the Lord make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.”

“Amen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>   
> 
> This concludes this story. I know this ends with a rather abrupt, sad finish but I don’t think there would be a way that I could really do justice in continuing this story. I would imagine that the Musketeers would be sent back to Paris where they would be removed from battle-ready status until they had a time of proper healing, emotionally and physically. They would have to find replacements for the lost Musketeers to bring them back up to full regiment numbers—but I would feel sorry for those replacements, as I imagine it would take time for the men to warm up to them. However, as in real life, life goes on. Duty to the king would go on… but the memory of the sixteen would live on forever.
> 
>  
> 
> **Final Roll Call**  
>   
> 
> For those in the U.S., a typical military memorial service for a fallen hero is a very reverent and solemn event. The Final Roll Call, especially is difficult because the _finality_ of the loss hits very hard when the name is called, yet no one answers. The way the US Army does Final Roll Call is that they call the person’s rank and name—and pause for an answer; they repeat with rank and FULL name (including middle name) and wait for a reply… that never comes. It’s terribly sad and haunting.  
>  For the sake of the story, I just used last names that Athos called out one by one.
> 
>  
> 
> **French Military Medals**  
>   
> 
> I wanted to have the awarding of medals to honor the bravery of the Musketeers, as they would do in real life, but I did not wish to diminish the honor of those French soldiers who have received the awards by using the real medals. All but one of the medals are made up and named after Patron Saints for reasons listed below. However, the real award I kept was _Médaille d'honneur pour actes de courage et de dévouement_ (Medal of Honor for Acts of Courage and Devotion) This is an old award, existing since the days of King Louis XIV. King Louis Philippe made it a wearable medal on April 12, 1831.  
>  This medal would be similar to the U.S.’s _Medal of Honor_ established in 1863.
> 
> The _Croix de Saint Denis_ was patterned after the _Insigne des blessés militaires_ or Insignia for the Military Wounded, established in 1916 during WWI for those killed and wounded in battle. It is similar to the U.S. Purple Heart, although not awarded until 1932, it was back-dated to those wounded or killed in WWI from 1917 forward.
> 
> Saint Denis:  
> He was martyred, with his companions Rusticus and Eleutherius, in connection with the persecution of Christians after 250 AD. Denis is said to have picked his head up after being decapitated and walked ten kilometres (six miles), while preaching a sermon of repentance.
> 
> Saint Genevieve:  
> It is said that she saved Paris by diverting Attila’s Huns away from the city. She convinced the people of Paris to fast and pray instead of fleeing from the city, and when the praying started, Atilla diverted—thus saving Paris.
> 
> Saint Georges:  
> In 302, A.D. Diocletian issued an edict ordering the arrest of every Christian soldier in his army. Saint George, using the courage of his faith, he faced the Emperor to loudly renounce the edict. It is also said that he tore down all the Emperor’s edicts. He was dragged through the street and tortured excessively, including laceration on a wheel of swords. It is said he was resuscitated from that particular torture three times, and was finally beheaded at the city wall on April 23, 303.
> 
>  
> 
> **SONG, You’ll Never Walk Alone:**
> 
>  
> 
> Obviously, this is a song and not a poem but I thought the words were so fitting. I used author discretion to fit it into my story.  
> You’ll Never Walk Alone is a show tune from the 1945 Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Carousel.
> 
>  
> 
> **Scripture:**
> 
>  
> 
> Numbers 6:24-26 KJV


End file.
